


I Can't Forget You

by SinpaiCasanova



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Aphasia, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Breaking and Entering, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Deaf Clint Barton, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Feral Behavior, Flashbacks, Hurt Steve Rogers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Sam Wilson is So Done, Sexual Abuse, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety, Stalking, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers is a Punk, Suicidal Thoughts, The key to effective illusion is misdirection, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Trust Issues, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, anger issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2019-11-01 22:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 49,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17876018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinpaiCasanova/pseuds/SinpaiCasanova
Summary: Bucky hadn't actually spoken a word since the last time he saw Steve, and he’s been constantly on the move, going from place to place but never staying longer than a few nights to keep the chances of someone (mainly Hydra) recognizing him low.How he ended up back in Brooklyn after a 70-year absence is beyond him, but he has a feeling that this place is very important to who he used to be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a concept that has been done 1,000 different times in just as many ways, but why not add one more to the pile?

One year. 365 days. 8,760 minutes.

Bucky has been keeping track. Each new sunrise adding yet another tally mark to his notebook, which is already bursting at the seams with colored post-it flags and manic scribbling that wouldn't make a lick of sense to anyone but him.

Half of it is written in Cyrillic with the most important bits of information written in code to prevent prying eyes that aren't even there from seeing his most private memories.

The images themselves don't really make all that much sense to him on their own. Like staring at a Rorschach and trying to decipher what form the ink blob is attempting to imitate. They're nothing more than pictures without context, sounds and smells that trigger an emotional response. Often times Bucky isn't sure if the fragmented memory is from the distant past or something that happened recently, but there is something–no, someone, that frequently shows up unannounced whenever a flashback takes hold of him and transfers him to another place in time.

The man on the bridge. The golden-haired hero he fought tooth and nail on the helicarriers. The one that called him by a forgotten name and refused to fight back, claiming that they knew each other. That Bucky was his  _ friend _ .

Bucky doesn't have any friends. Enemies, yes. But allies? The concept of having someone on his side– to stand by him and support him–Bucky couldn't say with certainty that he fully believed he ever had anything like that.

He doesn't know kindness. Can't recall having ever received it. But for a reason his mind is unable to supply, the image of the man — of the one they called  _ Captain America _ –doesn't bring about the type of feeling he'd normally associate with a target he was supposed to kill.

Nothingness. Impassiveness. That cold numbness that permeated the very marrow of his bones.

When Bucky thinks of him— _ Steve. His name is Steve _ —he feels like he's finally home; or, perhaps whatever that emotion might actually feel like. The only home that Bucky has ever known (to his knowledge) had been the compound in Siberia where he was created, and subsequently, the reconstituted bank vault in D.C. after the dissolution of the Soviet Union in ‘91.

Those places and the events that took place there make up the majority of the puzzle his mind is trying to put together, but every now and again, Bucky will see or hear or smell something that will trigger a flash of something peaceful, no doubt from a time he hardly remembers at all.

But alongside these pleasant flashes of moving pictures, Steve is always there. Watching. Waiting. And the feeling he gets when those sky blue eyes meet his–whether in defiance or something akin to...he doesn't even know.  _ Admiration _ ? Is that what it is?– is similar to a strike of lightning, setting his teeth on edge and the hairs on his right arm upright.

He doesn't know this man. But Steve, apparently, knows him. Or, at least, who he once was.

Bucky scanned the faces of the people strolling by, slowly and carefully pulling out his precious notebook from his backpack when no one bothered to meet his scrupulous gaze. To them, the man huddled up against the side of the white-brick building; dirty, thinning from hunger, with a manic expression etched into his face that was partially hidden underneath a ballcap he’d swiped somewhere in D.C., was just another victim of the economy. A homeless veteran maybe?

The clothes he'd swapped his tactical gear out for after hauling Steve from the Potomac were long enough to cover his left arm, and since the temperatures were dropping steadily, no one seemed to notice or care that he was wearing four layers worth of warm clothes to hide himself under: A burgundy henley over a grey t-shirt, brown zip-up hoodie, and a deep grey jacket to go with the black leather gloves he used to cover his cybernetic hand.

Despite the way he's perched against the building like a vagrant, Bucky was not actually living out on the street, and the money he'd accumulated from his recent memory dump wasn't actually needed. But he didn't feel the need to correct anyone that thought those things about him. In his opinion, it was better for him that he looked scary and homeless. No one would dare stop to talk to him if they thought he was a little off-kilter and dangerous. Which, in all intents and purposes, wasn't all that far from the truth.

Bucky hadn't actually spoken a word since the last time he saw Steve, and he’s been constantly on the move, going from place to place but never staying longer than a few nights to keep the chances of someone (mainly Hydra) recognizing him low.

How he ended up back in Brooklyn after a 70-year absence is beyond him, but he has a feeling that this place is very important to who he used to be.

Bucky's head sharply twitched, a jagged image suddenly appearing in his mind like a loud clap sounding between his ears.

A number _ –no, it's an address _ –possibly one that doesn't even exist anymore, is burning into his brain, glowing like the fiery hot metal of a branding iron behind his eyes.

Bucky is already scribbling it down on a random strip of nearly filled paper before he can really think too much about it. It could be nothing. But it could also mean everything.

With a soft snap, Bucky closed his notebook and reverently slid it back into his backpack, standing to his feet with a newly seeded purpose in his core. A short walk away reveals a public library, and within moments he has his answer.

The place in his head does in fact exist. Even better, it's right here in Brooklyn. Although, he has no clue why a damn laundromat would have some sort of significance to him. Maybe it used to be something else? He has a general timeline mapped out in his head thanks to a few exposed Hydra files on  _ The Winter Soldier _ , which the redhead he'd fought on the bridge released to the public before Pierce died. Most of them are encrypted, but Bucky has experience and patience. A man can do anything if he has those.

Born in 1917. Died (captured) in 1945. By his count, he's been alive for a century, so this building could have been anything. Regardless of his confusion, Bucky wouldn't be able to get much more information just staring at a still photograph on his computer screen. He'd have to see it in person, touch the bricks and smell the air to determine its worth among the countless other memories that litter the inside of his notebook.

Perhaps it would lead him to a few answers about the man on the bridge, and what part he has to play in Bucky's life.

*

The trip to the old laundromat was less than an hour or two on foot, but by the time he stood on the opposite side of the street; staring down the red-bricked building like an old foe, the sun was already starting to set.

Bucky pursed his lips, a divot forming in between his knit brows. He wasn't getting a damn thing from just looking at it. No flashes. No jangled memories to slide into place alongside the address. Nothing. He didn't feel a goddamn thing, and that, in and of itself, would dig its claws into his brain to torment him with endless frustration. There had to be something significant about this place. Maybe he just wasn't able to see it yet.

Once the street traffic was cleared, Bucky hoofed it across the road, now standing awkwardly in front of the laundromat. He received a few questioning stares from patrons inside, but Bucky wasn't really focusing on them. His stormy blue eyes were taking in every detail he could, from the rainbow of graffiti on the outside walls, to the cracked white and black tile that lined the inside of the nauseatingly bright interior.

Bucky took a measured step back, trailing his focused gaze upward. The top half of the building appears to have served a different purpose at some point, which confirmed his theory about this place being something entirely different during his time living in the area.

There's a fire escape running up the side and back of the exterior, and Bucky is drawn to it like a moth to a flame, reaching out to touch the scaffolding with his ungloved right hand. The steel is old, flaking and discolored from water damage and time.  _ Rusted _ .

**_Rusted._ **

The sound of creaking metal, light scratching and calm, even breaths weave their way behind his eyes, sweeping him away in a flash flood of emotion that contorts into images once again. He blinks to clear his head, but once his eyes are open again (no more than a second later), he's not exactly sure where he is anymore.

> _ His back is pressing uncomfortably against the bars of the rusted up metal railing behind him, legs and ass sore and growing numb from sitting in one place for far too long without moving. He can't move. It'll mess up the pose. _
> 
> _ Bucky's eyes flit up to the small figure sitting on the opposite side of the fire escape, familiar features set in stone cold concentration. He looks similar to Steve, but his body is small and frail, skeletal almost. His blonde hair is swept off to the side in a neat little part, but a few thin strands are hanging down into his face; obscuring his vision and making him quietly curse in frustration. _
> 
> _ He's been at this for hours, and Bucky can feel his stomach clawing at him with hunger. But he doesn't move. Doesn't speak. He doesn't want to ruin the portrait the boy is working so diligently on. There are smudges of charcoal on his nose; slightly crooked with a bump on the bridge of it from far too many fights. Bucky wanted to lean forward and carefully wipe it away, but he doesn't. He knows it's just an execuse to touch him, so he stays put, instead, listening to the unlabored breathing of the one before him. It's such a sweet sound, like it's a rarity to hear it in the first place. _
> 
> _ “Steven!–James! Suppertime!” A woman with an Irish lilt calls out from the window next to the boy, who acts like he didn't hear a thing. Maybe he didn't, or just chose to ignore it, but Bucky is already up and on his feet, leaning over to relay the same message into what he thinks is the boy's good ear. _
> 
> _ “C'mon, Stevie. Ma Sarah's callin’ for us.” He murmured, giving the boy a gentle nudge. “We can finish later, pal. I promise.” The smile he received in return was something only he had the privilege to see. Like an Aurora Borealis, lighting up the darkness with colors he could literally feel. _

Bucky's eyes close, and the moment is pulled out from under him like an old rug. He doesn't notice that his hands are shaking right away, but his heart is thumping against his ribs hard enough to make his chest ache. It's the first memory he's had that didn't feel broken or contextless. He wasn't just seeing that moment unfold. He relived it.

The name he'd heard— _ Steven _ —was he the same man he fought on the bridge, who foiled Hydra's plans for world domination? Doesn't seem likely to Bucky, but then again, he can't be 100% certain that it wasn't.

Same name.

Same eyes.

Same hair.

Same immovable sense of righteous indignation that filled his tiny body to the point of overflowing, probably landing him in hot water a time or two, or ten.

Bucky was now left with more questions than answers, but the memory offered him a small glimpse in time to a place he never wanted to leave.

_ Home _ . This place was home. Or, it used to be.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky stayed close to the side of the building for a bit longer than he'd originally intended to, catching little snippets of loose memory here and there when sounds or smells would force them out. But those subsequent flashes from the past were nothing compared to the immersive flashback that nearly pulled him under only half an hour ago. Bucky was still recovering from that memory in particular, but he was almost positive that he'd experience another flashback like it in the near future since his mind has been working so diligently to fill in the blanks left behind in Hydra's wake. They’re never in any sort of order, and Bucky has no idea what he's supposed to do with them once he has them, but they're there, crowding up his mind like clutter in a drawer.

Bucky spared an armed glance toward the mouth of the alleyway, keeping his head somewhat down and his face hidden well by the shadow of dusk. He knew that he couldn't hang around the old laundromat for much longer without drawing unnecessary attention to himself. Well, more so than he already had. Bucky had been getting a few glances from folks passing by, probably chalking his odd behavior up to some sort of mental ailment or illegal drug use. To their credit, it did appear that Bucky was far off in another world, casting a thousand-yard stare off into the distance as his brain sluggishly connected the few damaged pieces of the puzzle he had to his name.

He knows what this place is now–or rather, what it used to be, which is why he's having trouble pulling himself away. It's the first time in over a year that he'd felt like he was home, and the last time Bucky'd experienced that sensation he was staring down at Steve’s limp and unconscious body as he stood over him on the bank of the Potomac.

It wasn't like Steve was the only thing that triggered his overdue departure from Hydra, but it lit a fire under his ass in terms of remembering why he was fighting for these people in the first place. Seeing Steve on the causeway and hearing his name felt like a slap to the face, and Bucky couldn't figure out why he was trying to kill someone that looked at him that way; like he was both a vengeful spirit and the man that hung the moon.

It caused him to hesitate. It caused him to say his own name out loud, giving it life once more. It caused him to verbally doubt Peirce and the cause he'd been forced to believe in wholeheartedly for fifty years. After that, Bucky was on a downward spiral into his own head that no amount of memory wipes could stop.

The Battle of the Triskelion would have been Bucky's final mission with Hydra whether he succeeded in killing Steve or not, but he's unsure if freedom is really the better choice over death at this point.

He's riddled with fear and uncertainty all the damn time, and quite frankly, Bucky is exhausted. But he doesn't stop. He just keeps on moving, drifting like a specter in search of something his brain keeps trying to tell him he desperately needs. He knows what–no, _who_ that is, but he's afraid that seeing Steve again will only cause more pain for both of them. He's so tired of hurting, but it's getting harder to quiet that part of himself that’s reaching out for the familiar, and eventually, Bucky is going to give in. It's just a matter of when.

With a quick glance to the left, then right, Bucky seamlessly crept back into the flow of foot traffic that sparsely filled the sidewalks, crossing the street and heading back toward his safe house nestled in the heart of Brooklyn. He kept his head down and his ears plugged with headphones that weren't actually attached to a damn thing inside the pocket of his jacket, but the illusion was effective at closing himself off to unwanted conversation. Besides the fact that Bucky looked like he’d take a bite out of the unlucky person that ever tried to befriend him.

In his mind, he’s better off alone, but his conflicted heart seemed to think differently about that, always trying to pull him toward Steve whenever it saw an opening.

The actual place that Bucky has been squatting in for the past few weeks is nothing more than an abandoned, dilapidated store that’s tucked in between a Five-guys and a Bodega. The front of the building is boarded up and marked with graffiti; the old identity of the store stripped away through time and vandalization so thoroughly that Bucky couldn't even say what this place used to be.

He slipped down through the alley, keeping his head on a swivel and moving as quietly as he possibly could to the back entrance he used to get in and out. Once inside, Bucky made his way up the set of stairs that led to the manager's office and barricaded the door behind him. It wouldn't stop a legitimate attack from STRIKE or the Feds, but it would give Bucky enough time to arm himself to the teeth and either run like hell or fight his way to an early and well-deserved grave.

The cramped office space upstairs is stuffy and claustrophobic, with one of its three surrounding walls made entirely out of two-way glass to monitor the floor of the store down below, which is exactly why Bucky chose this spot to set up camp in the first place. It gives him the best vantage point. There's a ‘desk’ attached to the wall of two-way glass–which is actually just a flat strip of white plastic that mimics a desktop, a flimsy black computer chair and an empty safe that sat underneath the makeshift desk. The door to the office (which is currently barricaded behind stacks of totes filled will school supplies and expired candy) sits at the bottom of the narrow staircase, giving the illusion of more space. There's also a small bathroom with just a mirror, a sink, and a toilet that Bucky can't use even if he wanted to. The water doesn't actually work and the power has been shut off for years, so Bucky is sort of forced to use wet wipes and whatever else he can get his hands on for water-free maintenance. Hats are actually quite effective for hiding his greasy hair, but every few weeks he'll cave and sneak into a gas station restroom to give himself a quick sink bath.

It's not pretty, but it works for the most part.

Bucky carefully slides himself onto the computer chair, letting the squeak of the old metal and cracked plastic fill the small space before dissolving into deafening silence once again. There's only the sound of his own breathing there to comfort him after the recent dump of memory, and Bucky finds himself wishing that he had someone there to fill the silence up in his stead.

There's not much to do in terms of passing time besides documenting his recently excavated memories or planning his next move–which is just to stay alive and out of sight for as long as he possibly could. There are multiple organizations (from the Feds to crime rings that he'd personally had a hand in pissing off) that would love to say that they'd apprehended and killed the notorious Winter Soldier, and besides the obvious threat of imprisonment or execution for his heinous crimes, Hydra getting their hands on him for the third time scares the ever-loving shit out of him. It's them that he's truly hiding from, and he's not ashamed to say that he'd rather rot in a Wakandan prison than ever have to see that fucking Fennhoff Chair again.

It's easy to get lost inside of his own head when it's built like a maze; with terrifying surprises lurking around every corner. Often times these memories come equipped with a fuck-ton of anxiety that Bucky can't even begin to properly process, and it makes his skin feel far too tight and constricting, like he can't even take a breath without fear of tearing himself wide open.

It's only the dull roaring of his empty stomach that's able to pull him out long enough to catch his downward descent into a panic attack, and for once he's thankful to be painfully hungry. Mostly, he's just thankful for the distraction it provides.

Bucky sighed wearily and leaned over to pick up his discarded backpack, opening it up to grab his half-empty water bottle and a single granola bar that wouldn't even take the edge off of his gnawing hunger. He has more food in the bag but Bucky is carefully conserving what he has, trying to stretch out his rations as far as he possibly can. Ten MREs, a protein bar, and four bottles of water can only last so long, and Bucky can feel the anxiety begin to seal up his throat as he slowly consumes the dried oats glued together with something off-tasting and sweet.

It's probably expired as well. Great.

Bucky choked down the rest of it with what's left of his water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. And just like that, the distraction is gone and Bucky is cast back down into the abyss of his own mind, helpless to slow how fast he's falling.

Something in the dusty room smells rotten and fetid, like dying roses and stale water, and even Bucky's own week-old musk can't overpower it.

He wrinkled his nose, unable to find the source. The familiarity of the putrid scent sent a shiver up his spine, and it was then that he realized there was a memory tied to it. Further down the rabbit hole he went, following the scent of death and sorrow to a place he'd never seen before now. Only he had been here. He just doesn't remember.

 

> _There's a blonde-haired boy sitting in the wet dirt; partially peppered with new grass. A wooden cross covered in wilted rose petals with a woman's name carved across the flat surface._
> 
>  
> 
> _Sarah Rogers_
> 
> _Died October 15th, 1936_
> 
>  
> 
> _The boy turns at the sound of a voice–his voice?–sky blue eyes red-rimmed and glassy with barely restrained tears._ _It all but shattered his heart right then and there, and he knew that he wasn't supposed to see this moment of weakness. But here he is._
> 
> _“Thought I'd find you here.” The voice–Bucky’s?–murmured, coming closer and finally kneeling next to the skinny blonde with the crooked nose. Steve. It has to be Steve. It's the same kid from before, just a few years older with his round boyish features smoothed out into sharp points from puberty. His jawline is more distinguished, and Bucky thinks that he might be in his late teens by now. But he's still so small and fragile, and Bucky feels the distinct urge to wrap him in his arms and shield him from the world. Even though Steve would knock him upside the head for even trying to coddle him like that. Steve is tougher than he looks and he hates pity, so Bucky doesn't give it._
> 
> _“Sorry I didn't leave a note, Buck. Jus’ wanted to be alone for a while.” The boy shrugged, voice hollow._
> 
> _“How long you been out here, Stevie? Sittin’ in the muck, you're just askin’ for another bout of pneumonia.”_
> 
> _“M'fine. I can take care of myself.” Steve clipped, leveling a glare at Bucky that just screamed ‘try and tell me otherwise.’ It was a blatant invitation for them to argue, but one that Bucky never bothered to entertain. He wasn't here to fight. He was here to bring Steve home, plain and simple._
> 
> _“I know, pal.” He said, all traces of condescension gone from his tone. He knew better than that. “But like I said before, you don't have to.”_
> 
> _Steve’s mouth twisted into a frown, but he didn't object._
> 
> _“We're a team, you and me. We look out for each other, yeah? Till the end of the line, Steve. You can't get rid of me that easily.”_
> 
> _Steve huffed out a breath of laughter, shaking his head slightly. His gaze trailed up to meet Bucky's, barely smiling at all but a hint of relief was shimmering in the blue of his eyes; crinkled at the sides with unsaid emotion. He reached out confidently, taking Bucky by the shoulder and giving it a harsh squeeze that must represent their unique brand of affection._
> 
> _“What makes you think I'd ever wanna? You’d fall apart without me, pal.”_

Bucky is torn from the vision in an instant, sweating and trembling and somehow curled up on the dirty, thin carpeting that covered the office floor. He didn't remember moving from the chair, but it's not like that really mattered in the grand scheme of things. This one hurt like hell, leaving Bucky confused and frayed around the edges; like he'd just ripped the stitches out of an open wound.

He raked an unsteady hand through his tangled mess of long hair, trying and failing to make sense of what he'd just witnessed.

What were they to each other? Him and Steve.

Friends? Brothers? Something more than that? Bucky couldn't interpret much from the things he'd seen, but he knew that they were close. Steve had called him a friend on the helicarrier. He didn't fight to kill like Bucky had. He fought to disarm; to disable Bucky's attacks to stop them altogether.

Steve doesn't want to hurt him, but could Bucky really say the same for himself? He'd almost killed the man and he would have succeeded if Steve's attempt at triggering his memory had failed.

Bucky doesn't want to hurt Steve. He never did. But could he even control himself if the urge arose again? He didn't have a clear answer to that question, and that scared him more than Hydra ever did.

He just wanted to go home. But home was gone, converted into a laundromat some odd years ago. Bucky didn't belong there. He doesn't belong here either. He doesn't belong _anywhere_ anymore. So why is he still here?

Steve popped into his head the moment that thought passed through his mind, and Bucky couldn't help but quietly whimper at the feeling of comfort his image brought him.

He wanted Steve. He wanted to find him somehow and remember what friendship truly feels like. The old tenement downtown wasn't home anymore. Steve was home. Wherever he is, is where Bucky wants to be.


	3. Chapter 3

The bitter burn of alcohol coated his tongue, sliding down his throat to join what consisted of half a bottle of  _ Jameson _ sloshing around in his stomach. Steve can't get drunk, but that doesn't stop him from trying. His body won't allow the alcohol to blur the line between what's real and what isn't, but he can at least pretend that it will while he's out with his friends, supposedly having fun.

It's all he can do these days to stay afloat when his eidetic memory threatens to pull him down into the murky depths like a riptide, but Steve can only pretend that he's not ripping apart at the seams for so long before the inevitable eventually happens. His mask of composure is beginning to crack, revealing how damaged his soul truly is underneath the  _ Captain America _ persona he shields himself behind. If only these so-called friends of his really knew what an utter and complete mess he was at home, or cared to ask how he'd been doing seeing the ghost of Bucky Barnes standing before him on the causeway, then maybe he'd be able to shoulder the weight of his grief a little better. Maybe he wouldn't be drowning if someone had reached out to grab his hand and pull him up.

But they don't ask, and Steve doesn't tell them that he's lost the will to go on; that the only reason he hasn't tried anything yet is because Bucky is still out there somewhere and Steve refused to leave him all alone in this world again. Sam is the only exception, of course, but Steve still refuses to bleed on him. He understands what it’s like to lose a friend that was closer than a brother, and how guilt can build up over time to slowly crush you even when you're at your strongest. But Sam is Steve’s friend, not his counselor. He already knows how much Bucky means to Steve and how crucial it is that they find him before it's too late, so Steve doesn't talk about it when they're together, even though it's all he can think about some days.

No one noticed. It never even occurred to them that  _ America's golden boy _ might actually be more human than he’d led on. That his body is the only thing about him that's strong at the moment. He puts up a good front, smiling and joking with the others and pretending that he gave a damn about whatever they were saying. It's a hard life to live, but it's one that Steve chose for himself; to shut everyone out and carry this himself. He deserved it, anyway. He was the one that let Bucky fall.

His finger traced the lip of the now empty whiskey tumbler, absentmindedly staring off into the general direction of his friends–The Avengers–who were all crowded around the coffee table in the middle of Tony's living room; just drinking and shootin’ the shit like friends do. Clint was slouched on the floor next to Natasha, drunk off his ass and toying with some drumsticks he'd stolen from Tony. Sam was comfortably resting against the arm of the black leather couch, sitting next to Steve; who was sandwiched in between him and Thor. Tony was on the couch parallel to them, with his arm around Pepper and his feet perched on Bruce's unwilling lap.

It was loud and energetic, yet comfortable to be around. It reminded Steve of the Howlies and the nights they’d spent huddled around a small fire that Morita’d managed to build to keep them from freezing half to death; with watered down whiskey and some sort of stew Gabe threw together sitting in their bellies. It caused a sad smile to bloom across his face, but once again, only Sam seemed to notice that Steve was elsewhere. He wasn't listening to Tony's recount of what had happened on their previous mission, or the little jokes he'd made at Steve's expense regarding the use of bad language.

Sam nudged him with his knee, quirking a brow at Steve once he'd turned to look.

_ You okay? _

It was a silent question that Sam asked too often, and Steve merely rolled his eyes with a disheartened smile and turned back around to interject his two-cents into Tony’s story; like nothing was wrong.

“Were you always like this?” Tony quarried, not even giving Steve the chance to answer before going off on a tirade. “A killjoy, spoilsport, you know, the antithesis of fun? I can only imagine how insufferable you must have been back in the day.”

Steve groaned, wishing that he could chuck the glass tumbler at Tony's head without possibly killing him, but Tony's always been a professional asshole and Steve has learned that insults are just his way of saying that he kinda tolerates you more than others, and that's somehow supposed to be a good thing, or so he's been told.

“Believe it or not, but there are some things about me that even JARVIS doesn't know.” Steve smoothly retorted, leaving a bit of venom in that mostly benign statement. Sadly enough, that was the extent of Tony's knowledge when it came to Steve Rogers. He only knew the things that everyone else did and never really wanted to delve deeper into who the man behind the shield was. He was Cap to Tony and Clint, Rogers to Nat, and Captain America to whoever else bothered to address him. He was never Steve, the little sickly boy that was a dirt poor orphan living in a time long forgotten. These people didn't know that boy and could never know that side of him as intimately as Bucky did. Even Sam couldn't grasp that the man sitting next to him wasn't all muscles and righteous indignation. He could see Steve the veteran, but not Steve the orphan.

“What're you sayin’?” Tony sat forward, a gleam of mirth in his deep brown eyes. “You think I don't know America's righteous man? I know you, Rogers. You're not exactly deep on any level that matters.”

“That's exactly what I'm saying,” Steve said, allowing his mask to crack just a little more; letting some of his anger spill out like beams of sunlight through closed blinds. “None of you do.”

“Oh? Seems like Cap's got some skeletons. A darker side, maybe. Who knows? You might be human after all.”

“Let's just say you haven't seen my dark side yet, Tony.”

“Pretty sure I have. I read those SSR files. The greatest generation? You boys did some nasty stuff.” Tony's tone was quickly changing course, veering towards indignant. He was baiting Steve, trying to make him spill his secrets in the most obvious way. It's not like he hasn't withstood various attempts at interrogation from Nat and Fury. Tony was shit at espionage. He wouldn't get the reaction he was looking for.

Or so he thought. Tony did always manage to bring out the worst in him.

“We compromised, sometimes in ways that made us not sleep so well. But you're welcome for the freedom, Tony. My nightmares have been steadily feeding your life of leisure for years, and to think, if I'd just said  _ fuck it _ and jumped after Bucky like I'd wanted to, there wouldn't be a speck of dirt on this planet that doesn't have Hydra's mark on it. So, I think what you're trying to say is:  _ thank you, Steve. Thank you for putting yourself last once again to make sure the world wouldn't go to shit and I could get rich off the blood of innocents. _ You're very welcome, Tony.”

Tony’s smile melted off of his face, replaced by a scowl he normally kept reserved for Steve anyway. The easy atmosphere in the room was now thick with tension that felt like the humidity before a storm. Their relationship was volatile even on the best of days, and Steve was really getting sick and tired of hearing the shit that spewed from Tony's unfiltered mouth. He hadn't meant for the word vomit to come up, but he couldn't deny that it felt good to put Tony in his place before that mouth of his shot off again.

“I don't know what my father ever saw in you, Rogers.” Was his only snipe, but one that Steve's heard before. Even he had to agree with Tony on that. At least it dialed down some of the hype that came with the  _ Captain America _ title; made him appear to be more human than people saw him to be.

Steve smirked, gearing up to launch another volley of venomous words Tony's way, but Sam reached out and gripped his forearm firmly, giving him a look that told him he'd better knock it off. It was such a Bucky move to make, even though Steve’s mouth was writing checks his fists could definitely cash, he didn't want to punch his way out of this little squabble they were having. He just needed to step away and get some fresh air before he said anything else to add fuel to the fire.

“Imma walk him home,” Sam said, leaving no room for argument as he stood and hefted Steve up from the couch with a rough tug of his hand. “Thanks for havin’ us over, man. ‘S been real.”

Tony waved him off, seeing Sam's interjection for what it really was: a cease-fire. The others said their farewells and Sam was on his way out of Tony's penthouse with Steve's petulant ass in tow. Once they reached the elevator and the doors closed, Steve ripped his arm out of Sam's grip a bit too harshly, earning him a glare that could curdle milk.

“Hey, I know you're stressed, but I'm not your enemy.” Sam snapped. “Yeah, Tony's an asshole, but that's nothing new. The dude can't say somethin’ nice even if his life depended on it.”

“Doesn't make it right.”

“No, but you biting off his head like that wasn't right either. I don't get it, if you didn't wanna come out tonight, then why did you? It's obvious that you weren't here with us anyway. You never are anymore.”

“What, and risk hearing about how I'm turning into a brooding recluse that never leaves the apartment again?” Steve fired back, his filter gone. “No one noticed anyway, Sam. They never do because they don't care. As long as I sing and dance to the tune of  _ Captain fucking America  _ and do my part, they couldn't give a fuck less about me.”

The doors slid open and Steve stepped out into the foyer, glancing back to see Sam a good ten feet behind him. He looked like he was choosing his words carefully, worrying his bottom lip and staring off to the side as they made their way out onto the street where a cab was waiting. Someone must have called from upstairs. Probably JARVIS. Sam didn't live in New York like Steve now did. He was just here for a few days to visit from DC, heading back out tomorrow morning as it turns out. It must be for Sam, since Steve’s Harley was still parked out front.

When the silence stretched on for a few agonizing minutes longer, Steve finally piped up and let himself be heard. He'd kept his emotions to himself for the better part of a year, but now that his patience was wearing dangerously thin it was time for Sam to know just how  _ not okay _ Steve really is.

“Do you know what it's like to be ripped out of your own skin, stuffed into someone else’s?” Steve murmured, his tone softer than it was just moments before. Sam frowned but didn't interrupt, not like Steve even gave him that option. “I'm a stranger in my own damn home, Sam. I don't belong here. I should have gone after him when he fell. I should have tried harder to save him. What good am I if I can't even save the one that matters the most to me?”

Sam sighed, pausing with his hand clasped around the handle of the car door; stalling his departure for a moment longer.

“We're gonna put a pin in that, because we're definitely gonna talk about that once we're both home and you've had a second to breathe.” Sam pointedly said, taking a breath. “But you're here for a reason, Steve. Bucky would’ve kicked your ass for even thinking like that. But you're right. I don't know what it feels like to be you, and I'm sure that I'd be just as broken up as you are if I suddenly saw Riley when I thought he was gone, knowing that some truly fucked up shit’d happened to him and I wasn't there to stop it.”

Steve swallowed, tearing his gaze away from Sam. That Bucky sized hole in his chest was beginning to ache like a sore tooth, pulsing and throbbing in time with his racing pulse. Hearing Sam try to relate to him only made him feel that much more isolated. No one else in the world could even begin to understand what he's been through, but Sam was trying his best and Steve couldn't fault him for that. He was just so tired of being alone. He needed Bucky, but it'd been over a year since he'd last seen him and Steve doesn't even know if Bucky is alive right now. He's loath to say that he's giving up hope, but there hasn't been a single clue that proved otherwise. That's what kills him the most. The not knowing.

“They do care about you, Steve.” Sam added, opening the car door and stepping inside; taking his seat in the back of the cab. “They might not show it the way that he did back in the day, but if you just open up to them and give them the chance to know you like Bucky did, you’d be surprised to find how much love they have for the man behind the shield. Even Tony.”

“Thanks, Sam.” Steve conceded, far too exhausted to even try to put up a fight. He didn't believe it, but Sam probably already knew that, judging from the look he received in return. “I'll talk to you later. Have a good flight home.”

“Just promise me you'll try, Steve. It's been a year and we're all worried.” Sam paused, knowing his next words were walking a thin line. “Might be time to move on, you know?”

Steve's mouth was a tight line of barely contained frustration, but he merely nodded and repeated his previous statement, thanking Sam and telling him they'd talk soon. There was no way in Hell that Steve was going to move on and leave Bucky out there. He'd let Bucky down so many times before, and he wasn't about to leave him on his own after everything that's happened. He'd never forgive himself if he did.

Sam gave him a stiff nod and closed the car door. This conversation was far from over, but at least Steve was finally alone with his thoughts, climbing onto his bike and starting up the engine.

Only, he wasn't as alone as he'd initially thought, because there, among the darkened stillness that surrounded him on the side of the busy street was a presence he'd only felt twice before.

Eyes on his back, watching him from the shadows. Steve froze, keeping his head fixed downward toward the gauges of his Harley while his eyes scanned his periphery; spotting nothing out of the ordinary. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end, and Steve was reminded of seeing Bucky on the helicarrier; drilling that blank, icy gaze into his head. He was here, somewhere, watching him. Waiting. Waiting for what, he wasn't sure. But he’d find out soon enough.


	4. Chapter 4

Three long days and nights had passed since Sam returned to D.C, and not much had really changed for Steve. He was still angry at Tony for the things he'd said and would be for quite some time. His trademark stubbornness didn't just stop at missions. Steve Rogers could hold a grudge like the worst of them and didn't relent unless he saw no other avenue left to settle the matter. That is if steps were being taken to actually smooth over the broken ground between him and whoever dared to step on his toes.  
  
Perhaps that was why his relationship with Tony was so jagged around the edges and filled with strife. Tony doesn't play well with others and he damn well doesn't care if he hurts someone's feelings, especially if he felt like that person was in the wrong. Tony has strong opinions and isn't easily moved, which made him especially dangerous if you wound up on the wrong side of his wrath. Steve was the same way when it came to certain matters. He could play nice if he had to–and he’d tried originally when he'd first met Tony, mostly due to the relationship Steve had had with Howard–but Tony had made his disdain for Steve perfectly clear from the start. He'd been harboring some nasty feelings towards Cap for years, having to grow up in the shadow of a man his father idolized, never once measuring up to earn Howard's approval.  
  
_“He was my greatest achievement,”_ Howard had said many times over, retelling the story of how he and Dr. Erskine had turned a 90 lb asthmatic into the bonafide American Dream™ all those years ago, and how nothing else after that had ever lived up to that moment. Even the birth of his only son.  
  
So, of course, Tony would grow to hate Captain America. He never had a chance to know the man behind the shield before Howard tarnished his image for good. They had good moments and bad, with periods of neutrality that settled between them when one of them wasn't actively trying to piss off the other. Those moments were far and few in between anymore, and things have been progressively getting worse. It's really only a matter of time before one of them snaps and does something unthinkable. Something that can't be undone.  
  
For the most part, Steve's been sticking to his daily routine to find solace in a world that wasn't meant for him. The routine was familiar and added some much-needed structure and stability to his clusterfuck of a chaotic life, and Steve came to rely on it much like he had during his army days. Back when nothing was certain and every breath you took could've been your last.  
  
But Steve had also relied on Bucky to keep himself grounded when circumstance wanted to send him up into the atmosphere to suffocate in the thinning air. To Bucky, Steve wasn't this invincible embodiment of the American spirit that so many others had seen him as. He was that little guy from Brooklyn that was too dumb not to run away from a fight. That same 90 lb asthmatic that had a heart too big for his chest and a wit unparalleled to any other he'd ever known. Bucky saw Steve the artist. Steve the poverty-stricken orphan that had one friend and nothing else to his name. Bucky knew him inside and out, had seen him at his worst and celebrated the moments when life saw fit to bless him. He missed that connection to his past, to himself. But most of all, he missed the man that defined who he was as a person–that gave him purpose and direction.

In reality, Steve was just looking for a home. He'd found it with the Avengers in some ways and celebrated the gain of a new family, but Bucky is Steve's original family. No other relationship–past or present–could ever compete, nor would anyone else be able to fill that Bucky-sized void in Steve’s heart, and that's why Steve is going out of his ever-loving mind now that he knew Bucky was still alive and out there somewhere in the world.  
  
Even when he had nothing, Steve always had Bucky. This man had grown up with him, watched his back and saved his ass on countless occasions, and the one time Bucky needed Steve to save him, he'd let Bucky fall 800 feet into a yawning chasm of ice and jagged rocks, and just left him there to die. But in typical Bucky fashion, he'd survived the unsurvivable, and instead of finding rescue from his friends and allies, Bucky'd ended up in the clutches of the enemy for over seventy-goddamn-years and it's all Steve's fault.

Those deaths that Bucky undoubtedly pinned on himself, when he was nothing more than Hydra's puppet, were on Steve. The blood of the innocent was on his hands, and no amount of hot water and bleach could ever wash them clean, despite how much Steve's tried. Even going so far as to scrub his hands until the flesh was raw, cracked, and bleeding. It's all he can do to try and fix the image that he saw when he looked in the mirror: a traitor, a murderer, and a liar.

Eventually, he’d gotten so sick of looking at himself that he’d ripped the mirror from the bathroom wall and tossed it from his window into the alleyway below. The shattered glass and mangled frame are still there, and Steve sometimes liked to stare at it when his body was feeling twitchy with the urge to destroy. He has so much pent-up anger that his body is bursting at the seams with it, and Steve is honestly surprised that he'd gone this long without resorting to barbaric measures to relieve the pressure.

He longs to hunt those bastards down that dared to lay a hand on Bucky and tear them apart, limb from fucking limb. But the unsatisfying fact remained that most of those assholes were long past dead. Zola, Lukin, Pierce, as well as the STRIKE team that handled him at the time of Project Insight, were all dead and gone, justice served for some, but not others. There were other members of Hydra that most likely had a hand in Bucky's torment that were still alive, Steve was sure of it, but Natasha had assured him that once they were through data-mining Hydra's files on the Winter Soldier and had any solid leads, that he'd be the first to know.

That was over eight months ago, and Natasha is still working on Bucky's file. That left Steve sitting in limbo, pacing back and forth like a caged lion waiting for his chance at revenge. Not for himself, but revenge for what they did to Bucky. All he had was time and an endless supply of anger to keep him company while he waited for a lead, a sign that Bucky was still out there and alive. And three days ago he'd received just that in the form of a gut feeling he hasn't felt since.

So, on the fourth day, Steve woke up to the sound of his alarm like he did every day before, and was met with a feeling he knew all too well: restlessness.  
  
His bedroom was still blissfully dark, though the artificial light pouring in from the city outside his apartment window provided a dim glow to illuminate things just enough for him to see. 4:00 am is still early for most, which is why Steve liked to do his morning run when the sun was still asleep. An earlier hour meant fewer chances of bumping into chatty fans, and Steve would surely lose his shit if he had to take one more goddamn picture with some grabby stranger that acted like they knew him.

It wasn't that he hated his following, it was just that Steve wasn't in the correct state of mind to try and fake a smile anymore. He couldn't put on the _Captain America_ voice and stand tall for the public like he used to, and it honestly reminds him of his days in the USO show, when Steve was just a dancing monkey with no other purpose than selling war bonds. _Useless,_ he thought back then, and he felt that way now.

 _Useless. Powerless. Weak._ Things that used to describe Steve Rogers before the serum, and he never thought that he'd ever feel that way again, but yet here he is. It’s like he's back to the way he used to be, just some angry kid with a chip on his shoulder; looking for a fight and a chance to prove his worth. God, he was such a fool–still is a fool– and probably always will be.

Steve's heart clenched at the sound of Bucky's voice echoing inside of his head as he slipped out of bed, reminding him that he was the world's biggest dumbass. Of course, Bucky'd always said it with that sweetly affectionate tone, wrapping that insult up in sugar to help it go down easier.

It rang in his ears as he pulled on his navy blue compression top and some black running pants, completely forgetting that it was the beginning of November and that the air outside was chilled with the promise of snow. Steve always ran hot, especially after he came out of the ice a few years back. It was almost like his body was still trying to compensate for the cold that wasn't there any longer, turning him into a walking furnace. But anything was better than the bone-chilling cold he remembered so vividly, filling up his lungs and strangling his heart with an icy fist. It's a feeling so real that it often slipped into his dreams, pulling him back down into that frozen tomb to drown all over again.

Steve tried his best to ignore the initial blast of frigid air that met him once he'd stepped outside, but his muscles tensed and his lungs seized up all the same. He'd probably never be able to get past the fear of the cold, but in Steve's mind, he could have had it much worse than that.

He pondered this as he took off at a steady pace down the nearly vacant sidewalk, letting his rigid muscles warm up and stretch a bit before upping the speed of his run to a sprint.

Bucky had it so much worse than Steve. Yes, Steve had to endure the pain of drowning in ice, and remained frozen for seventy years while the world went on without him. But Bucky had to experience something so much more horrific than just crashing a plane into the Arctic. He'd fallen from the railing of a train car, had his left arm mangled in the fall and sustained countless other injuries that should have left his body unrecognizable. A fall from that height into a crevasse filled with ice and rock wouldn't have left much of him intact, and even with the serum, Bucky shouldn't have survived it at all.

But more than that, Bucky also had to endure years worth of mental and physical torture. Things that no man should ever have to witness, much less experience first hand. And as much as Steve hated the cold and frequently dissociated because of it (and other unspoken factors), Bucky was frozen to death in an iron coffin over and over, and over again; losing years of his life to the cold. Steve can only imagine the shit he has to work through day after day just to remain functional.

It's all he can think about some days, consuming his mind like a deadly virus. So much so that he almost doesn't notice the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise; his skin prickling with unease once again.

Steve doesn't stop, nor does he slow his pace once he reaches Prospect Park. He knew this feeling. Being watched from the shadows. His eyes were pinpricked, senses highly tuned and muscles tight with tension. He felt like a deer caught in the gaze of a hungry wolf, helpless to stop it and heedless to even try.

Why should he at this point? If Bucky wanted him dead, he would be by now. Half the time he wished he’d never survived the wounds that Bucky’d inflicted in the first place, but Steve’s always been too stubborn to just lie down and die, so why would then be any different? Besides, Steve would never leave Bucky on his own to wade through this new century, especially when it was his fault he was here in the first place.

The feeling of sharp eyes on his back sent prickles of anxiety over his skin, wrapping him up in coils of barbed wire as he ran through the desolate park, unable to pretend any longer that he didn't notice. Bucky was following him, but true to legend, Bucky felt more like a ghost looming over his shoulder than any assassin he'd ever met. Even Natasha wasn't _this_ stealthy, and that's really saying something about Bucky's skill if even Nat couldn't pull it off herself.

Against his own better judgment, Steve comes to a stop in the middle of the park, standing frozen like an alabaster statue as the fountain nearby filled the area with the soft sounds of running water.

Steve didn't dare move a muscle. He didn't turn around to look as the feeling of needles poking his skin began to amplify. He swallowed, exhaling slowly through his nose when a shadow caught the corner of his eye; intentionally stepping into Steve's line of vision.

It was too dark for Steve to really see anything, but he could feel it as Bucky stepped closer. His steps were muted, leaving Steve with only this weird sixth sense to go by, trusting that Bucky wouldn't hurt him. Not that Steve ever thought he would after Bucky dragged him from the Potomac, saving his ass once again. This didn't feel like Bucky was here to harm him in the first place. It was curious, guarded, and maybe even a little hopeful. Like Bucky was sniffing him out to see if Steve was friend or foe. It reminded Steve of an abused animal, slowly coming closer but not yet fully trusting that outstretched hand that offered it food.

Steve licked his lips, taking a chance to reach out and make contact. “Bucky?”

The figure in Steve's peripheral stiffened, but he knew that Bucky was but a whisper away from fleeing at any second. He didn't answer Steve. Bucky never made a sound at all. He just stood there, watching and waiting for Steve to make a move.

Steve spoke again, lowering his voice to a gentle murmur so he wouldn't frighten Bucky away. “It's alright, Buck. I know you're nervous. You have plenty of reason to be.”

Bucky remained silent, listening as Steve continued to talk, all the while keeping his back to Bucky as a sign of trust. Bucky wouldn't hurt him unless he felt as though he had to defend himself against Steve.

Steve wouldn't ever give him a reason to do so.

“I'm glad you reached out, Buck.” He said, saying Bucky's nickname again just so Bucky would hear it. “I'm not going to hurt you. I never would have before had you given me the option. Even if you don't believe me, you're safe with me, Bucky. You don't have to be afraid. I swear I'll keep you safe. You have my word.”

Steve's entire body felt like a live wire, charged to explode into a haze of sparks and fire. He could hear the gears turning in Bucky's head, going over the words that Steve had said to find the fault in them. He knew that Bucky wasn't ready to take that step yet, and he may never be ready to trust another person after what he's been through, but Steve just wanted him to know that he had somewhere that he could go, someone that Bucky could lean on when he was too tired to stand on his own.

Steve longed to reach out and pull Bucky into his arms, to say that he missed him and beg him to come home, but he didn't. He couldn't. That would surely scare Bucky off faster than anything, and Steve knew that he was just one breath away from shutting Steve out for good.

Bucky had taken a bold risk by making contact with Steve, and Steve wasn't about to screw this up by saying something stupid and needy. He could play this game for now, so long as he knew that Bucky was alive and still hanging around the area. He could wait for Bucky a little longer, if it meant that he'd one day come home to Steve.

Steve felt warm breath on the back of his neck, unable to suppress the shiver that ran up his spine. Bucky was impossibly close now, and all Steve would have to do is turn his head just a little bit and he'd be able to see his face. It was awfully tempting, but Steve still did not move.

He just let Bucky do whatever he needed to do to feel safer, letting the seconds drag out into minutes before he opened his mouth to speak again, this time never actually making it to the first syllable before the sound of a twig snapping shut him up completely. In the space of a breath, Bucky had turned toward the sound in question and then darted off at lightning speed in a direction Steve couldn't see. To have him so close one second and gone the next all but sucked the air from Steve's lungs, leaving him shaken and gasping as he whipped around to find a stray cat wandering into the park from under a nearby bush. He’d only been standing there for about three minutes, but the entire ordeal left him feeling a bit empty and disoriented, like he’d been touched by a spirit. But most of all, it left him feeling angry. Not at Bucky for running off, but at himself for letting it happen.

Bucky was right there. He'd had him in his grasp, and Steve let him slip through his fingers once again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone still reading this?  
> If you are and you're enjoying this story, please leave me a comment, even if it's just one word. Feedback is so precious to us writers, and it really does make a difference.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this ❤

He wasn't sure what he'd find when he’d stepped into Steve's apartment two weeks later; quietly pushing the front door closed. No one was home. Of that, he was sure. Bucky had kept a close eye on Steve since the night he'd spotted him outside of Avengers Tower, talking to that man Bucky was almost sure he'd dispatched when he'd ripped off his wing and kicked him from the helicarrier. 

What was his name again?–Wilson? He didn't know much about the soldier that had Steve's back that fateful day, but Bucky was relieved to see that Wilson was still alive. At least he didn't have to mourn the loss of another innocent taken by his own hands, and perhaps the knowledge that Steve had someone on his side–a friend out there watching his six–would help him breathe a little easier, but not by much.

The guilt was still just as suffocating as it'd always been, more so as his memories began to shake off the dust collecting over them like old furniture. But seeing Steve after a year of imposed separation, and knowing that he alone held the key to unlocking who Bucky was before his mind was scrambled and fried like an egg, was just too overwhelming for him to handle.

Bucky had every intention of going to Steve that night, once they were alone, but his feet wouldn't move and his voice failed to produce a sound. The anxiety of seeing this piece from his forgotten past, and not knowing what Steve would say or do once he saw Bucky, was strong enough to render him useless.

He couldn't go to Steve just yet, not when he didn't know if this man was safe to be around or not. They did fight each other pretty viciously, with Steve breaking Bucky's right arm near his shoulder joint. The part of him that was  _ The Soldier _ scolded him, telling him to stay away and forget about Steve Rogers– that he couldn't trust anyone, not even himself.

That was the crux of it though. Bucky couldn't forget Steve. How could he ever hope to escape him when Steve was inside his head, pulling out old memories and feelings that only served to confuse him. But it was those emotions; that invisible tether that linked them together in an unbreakable and undefined way that led him to where they met in the middle of Prospect Park at four in the morning on a Wednesday.

He hadn't meant to make his presence known at the time; simply running surveillance and tailing Steve on his run so that he could get a closer look this time. But he saw the fine blonde hair lift on Steve's forearms, and the way his pale skin prickled with goosebumps; causing Steve to stop and freeze right there next to the fountain, like an open invitation for Bucky to come closer.  _ So much closer. _

In that moment, Bucky was overcome with the urge to reach out and touch Steve's skin; breathe him in and take advantage of the opportunity that he was so generously presented with.

For the longest time, he couldn't move a muscle. His feet were glued to the spot, body crouched in the bushes, ears listening to Steve’s lungs as they effortlessly expanded to draw in air, and he suddenly remembered when Steve was sickly and frail; bedridden with fever from his recent encounter with pneumonia. He remembered listening to Steve's lungs expand and deflate, clogged up with mucus and fluid that came out in the sound of a snoring exhale and high pitched, whistling inhale. Bucky was crouched next to Steve's bedside, heart cracking like porcelain with every ragged breath, praying to a God he hadn't talked to in years, selfishly begging for Steve to just hang on a little tighter; fight a little harder. Anything to keep him with Bucky for while longer.

> _ “Keep your eyes open, Stevie,” he'd told him when Steve's tiny body started to show signs of shutting down. His fever was high enough to burn Bucky's palm a bit when he'd rested it against Steve's sweaty forehead, and by then, Steve had become listless and disoriented to the point where words were slurred and damn near unintelligible. Steve had tried to do as Bucky'd asked, but only a small sliver of sky blue was visible in between his swollen eyelids, slowly cracked open and lined with shades of deep red and purple. Still, it was enough for Bucky. Steve was still there, still hanging on by a thread, and Bucky had never been so proud of him than he was right then. Always a fighter. Always one to defy the odds. Bucky's little blue-eyed miracle. “There you go, sweetheart. Eyes on me. I wanna see those gorgeous blues, y’hear? Prettier than all the stars in the sky, they are.” _
> 
> _ Steve's chapped lips had turned up at the corner, giving Bucky a watery grin that made his heart ache and his eyes blur with tears he wouldn't dare shed in Steve's presence. _
> 
> _ “You were right, y'know,” Bucky said, smoothing Steve’s damp hair back and away from his forehead with a trembling hand. “I'd fall apart without you, pal. So you gotta stick around for a while. Keep me outta trouble. No one can hold me down quite like you, Stevie. Not a dame alive that can handle me like you can.” _

That had been Steve's second brush with death that winter. The first, when Steve caught a cold from the kid two blocks down when Steve delivered them groceries from Gianino's market–a job that paid shit wages but made Steve feel like he was doing his share, while Bucky worked three jobs to make ends meet.

That sniffle had quickly turned into a nasty, rattling cough that ended up triggering an asthma attack so bad that Bucky'd thought he'd die right there where he’d collapsed on the kitchen floor.

Steve barely made it that morning, and Bucky remembered sitting on the hardwood floor in the kitchen, holding Steve against him; Steve's back to his chest, talking him through it and trying his damndest to breathe as evenly as his body could manage with all that adrenaline and anxiety coursing through his veins.

He felt helpless then, and he feels the same way now; though, for different reasons. Steve's not sickly anymore from what Bucky can see (bigger in size too), but hearing Steve's deep voice wrapped around that name he'd heard on the helicarrier– _ Bucky _ ; speaking so softly and tenderly to him, as if he'd deserved that bit of kindness, was enough to draw him out into the open like a goddamn fool.

He’d wanted to speak to Steve, then. Ask him a question or, really, say anything that he'd been thinking in that moment; standing so close to Steve, yet so far away. Words burned to ash on his tongue, his jaw locking up in defiance and making his teeth grind together from the strain. The harder he fought against it, the less his body cooperated. Being this close to his past–like touching a relic from a life he'd never known–made his chest tighten and his eyes sting; tears sliding down his cheeks in an incredible display of weakness he'd never exhibited before now. At least that he could remember.

Steve smelled of clean sweat and soap; his presence like pages from a good book against his fingertips and warm tea on Bucky's tongue.  Does he even like tea? He can't recall having ever tasted it. What books did he like to read? Did he even enjoy the thrill of a good story? Dime-store novels–pulp fictions? He must have if he's feeling this way about it, like he's missing something terribly that ties in with Steve.

> _ Long nights lying awake, reading to Steve by candlelight when neither could fall sleep on their lumpy mattress. Bucky's smooth voice filling the space between them, a soft grin on even softer lips. Lips he doesn't recall tasting. _

He licks his own, flesh hand reaching out to touch Steve's hair at the nape of his neck. But the moment was broken all too soon. A sound, sharp like a knife to his chest, and Bucky's feet were moving before Steve even had a chance to turn and look himself.

Bucky's heart was lodged in his throat, feet carrying him as fast and as far away as he could travel. He'd been so close to having what he wanted again, but like a skittish dog, the slightest of sounds was enough to drive him away. He knew where Steve lived through careful surveillance, and could easily break in and gather more intel on him, but he wasn't yet ready to take that chance and risk exposing himself at such a vulnerable time.

Bucky was weak from hunger and exhaustion, going on a week now without food and water. The rations he'd been conserving were long since gone, and he'd been eating out of the trash and drinking anything that didn't look like it'd kill him as soon as he swallowed it, but of course, it wasn't enough to sustain him.

Hydra didn't bother to feed him much between missions, mostly due to how infrequently he was reanimated from cryostasis. He was never kept awake for longer than a few days–five at the most–and was given a cocktail of supplements and other questionable things via injection that he couldn't identify to stabilize his body until he was put back in storage. Needless to say, Bucky is used to running on fumes. Used to the clawing hunger and thirst, the fatigue in his muscles and the lead-like weight of his bones.

He's used to being awake for days on end, falling into microsleeps like he is now–where dreams and reality seamlessly blend together into a tapestry of nightmarish hell on earth. Bucky’s body is used to being beaten and mangled, his mind torn asunder and picked apart like a lab rat's. He's familiar with loneliness. Accustomed to pain. But fear? Fear isn't something he remembers experiencing until he'd faced off with Steve.

Fear is an emotion he'll never get used to. It's what drives him to bounce from place to place, what keeps him paranoid and looking over his shoulder; expecting the worst.

It's also what leads him to where he is now. Standing in Steve's darkened apartment, frozen stock still and wide-eyed as he stared himself in the face.

Steve's home is barely what one would call “lived in”. The walls are white and strangely devoid of anything that would mark this space as Steve's. The couch and armchair are cream-colored; the floors a soft beige of hardwood. There isn't much here to suggest that Steve even lives in this apartment, but the object that has Bucky's rapt attention–that confirms what his intelligence has already told him to be true–is unmistakably Steve's.

There, sitting on the coffee table, pages flipped open for anyone to see, is a sketchbook. One that Bucky remembered seeing in Steve's hands from a time long before. The pages are yellowed and frayed, the cover hanging on by a few thin fibers.

Bucky had made the decision to come here while Steve was out for his daily run; having spent the last two weeks watching him like a hawk from the empty apartment across the street, nailing down an annoyingly predictable routine that left him an hour-long window to break into Steve's place and find out a little more information about him before he made contact again. Despite what his heart had been telling him, Bucky had to be 1,000% sure that Steve was on his side before he did something that put him out in the open.

But right there, on the pages of that sketchbook, was his answer.

Bucky's image was lovingly crafted in thick charcoal lines, detailing every inch of his somber expression while he sat barefoot on the dock, sleeves rolled up to the elbow and slacks folded at the ankle; a smoldering cigarette loosely cradled in between the fingers of his left hand as he stared off into the distance.

The air caught in his throat, forcing out a choked sound that echoed around him in the empty apartment. That was him. His face and his flesh and blood body, posing for Steve the year before he'd gotten his draft letter.  _ The summer of 1940, _ his mind helpfully supplied, and his ears began to ring with Steve's voice–his laughter when Bucky cracked a joke to pass the time.

> _ “Why you always gotta draw me, Stevie?” Bucky hears himself say. He's whining about how numb his backside is, but Steve just rolled his eyes and scoffed, answering with a confident, “Because you're the only model I got, Buck. Beggars can't be choosers, or so you always say.” _
> 
> _ “You sayin’ you don't wanna draw me by choice?” Bucky fired back with a sharp grin, shaking his head and laughing when Steve groaned, exasperated. “Kids these days got no respect for their elders, I'm tellin’ you. It's a goddamn travesty.” _
> 
> _ “You're a year and three months older than me, Buck. You ain't nobody's elder.” Steve sighed, but there’s laughter in his voice. “But no. I always wanna draw you. Where else can I get a view like this and put it down on paper? Sure ain't a sunrise I wanna be seein’ right now.” _

Bucky stepped forward, drawn to the portrait of himself but too afraid to touch it. The pages are old and worn, and Bucky ruins everything he touches. Steve spent so much time and energy on this, too much for Bucky to risk smearing the page with the blood he has on his hands. Blood that's been accumulating for seven decades.

He sniffled, unable to tear his eyes away from it. Unwilling to part from that memory and the joy that came with it.

He doesn't know how long he's been standing there, but his back stiffened at the sound of wood creaking and metal turning. He’s facing the wall with his back to the door, too afraid to move or speak, even though he knew from the start that this would be a trap. Nobody is  _ that _ predictable unless it's on purpose.

His breathing is shallow and panicked, heart clenching painfully and eyes blurred and bloodshot.

“Buck?”

The name is like lead in his lungs. A noose around his neck. But he turns to face him, to face the ghost from a life long past. Steve. The boy from his dreams. The man behind the shield. His little blue-eyed miracle.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very much for the feedback you left in the last chapter. I can't explain how much that meant to me.❤ your comments are always appreciated

Steve held his breath for what seemed like an eternity, standing in the doorway of his apartment, left hand clutching the silver knob tightly; leaving behind finger-shaped indents in the polished metal from how strong his grip was. Half of him couldn't believe that Bucky was standing in his living room, back rigid and eyes wild, casting panicked glances between him and the hallway Steve was blocking with his body. The most lethal man in the world–one nicknamed _‘the boogeyman’_ in certain circles–so easily took the bait he'd laid out, obviously trusting either his skills to get him out of there if he needed to run, or his faith in what memories he’d uncovered of Steve to believe that he wouldn't ever intentionally hurt him. But perhaps it's a bit of both. Steve was hanging onto that last thread of hope tighter than the metal railing Bucky had before he fell off the train. If things went sour here, there's no telling what Steve would do. It's unfathomable for him to lose Bucky again, and he'd do just about anything to keep him here now that he has the man within arms reach.

Of course, judging from Bucky's wary expression in regards to Steve, this looked like a trap. Even to Steve, who Natasha often claimed was the worst spy she'd ever seen, it looked like he was luring Bucky into a trap, like he was a wild animal on the wrong side of the dinner bell.

Bucky had to have known that something like this was bound to happen though. His skills are far too sharpened to allow for such an oversight, and he'd probably been able to hear Steve's movements outside the door long before he even alerted the skittish assassin in his apartment that he'd been had. 

Perhaps his desperation to find answers temporarily overrode his practical sensibilities, allowing for this much overdue reunion between the two, because Steve knows without a shadow of a doubt that Bucky would have bolted long before Steve ever opened that door. He stayed because he wanted to. He wanted Steve to see him here and now and that, in and of itself, was a shock to Steve's system. Whatever the reason, Steve wasn't about to question it.

“Bucky–” Steve managed to say through the thick wave of emotion that clogged up his throat, looking at the man in front of him with wide eyes that betrayed how relieved he really was to see him. “God, it's really you, isn't it? You're really here.”

Steve's voice was reedy and cracked with emotional strain, but Bucky didn't respond at all. He didn't even move. His pupils had dilated to the point where only a tiny sliver of cobalt blue was visible, and his eyes were rapidly clocking all the exits in the apartment, even the ones he couldn't see but knew about. It was tactical and smart of him to be thinking ten steps ahead from now, but it also showed Steve just how scared Bucky was to be in such close quarters with him. He could hear the whirring of Bucky's cybernetic arm recalibrating as he clenched his fists, muscles tight and battle ready.

Bucky shifted his weight back onto his right foot, keeping his eyes on Steve as he ran through a thousand different fight or flight scenarios in his head. He was getting tense, looking like he was either seconds away from bolting or launching himself into an attack. Whatever he was planning on doing, Steve had to act quickly to assure that he wouldn't harm Bucky in any way, and as much as it pained him to say, to let Bucky leave if he wanted to go.

“It's okay,” he said in as soothing a tone as he could possibly make, offering a soft and genuine smile. “I'm not going to hurt you, Buck. I'm going to put my hands up now.” Steve slowly and very deliberately raised his hands, showing Bucky that he wasn't armed and making sure his hands were up high enough that Bucky would catch him if he made a move for a weapon.

Bucky tracked the movement, staying still and as silent as the grave. His jaw tightened, and Steve caught sight of the muscles in his neck jumping as he clenched his teeth, narrowing his eyes a bit.

When Bucky didn't attempt to speak, Steve spoke for him, filling the quiet of the apartment with his smooth baritone voice.

“D'you know me?” He asked, getting straight to the point so he'd know what he was dealing with here.

Bucky hesitated, seemed to mull the question over in his head for a moment before finally giving Steve a curt nod, but his expression still appeared dubious, like he wasn't entirely sure of his answer.

That seemed about right. Bucky hadn't made an attempt to run yet, and if he planned on hurting Steve he'd’ve done it by now, so Steve deduced that Bucky was here for answers. Makes sense. Even without any verbal input from Bucky, it appeared that Steve was right on the nose with his assumption when he received the answer to his next question.

“You're confused, aren't you? About me. Us. What I have to do with you and the images in your head.”

Bucky nodded.

“You want answers, but you don't know where to look to find them. All you have is me, and that led you here. Correct?”

Another nod, this time a bit more enthusiastic. It made Steve smile, but Bucky didn't. He wasn't showing much emotion other than his leery, ever watchful expression that was trained on Steve. He still didn't speak, didn't even make a sound. Not even the rapid rise and fall of his chest was audible, and it set Steve on edge. There was a reason why he wasn't talking, and Steve hoped to God that it wasn't because his tongue had been removed for defecting or something like that. He wouldn't put it past Hydra, and that thought sent a zip of nausea up his spine.

“Can you talk, Bucky?” Steve asked, letting the concern he felt show on his face. Bucky seemed confused by it, tilting his head a little to the side and furrowing his brow. He swallowed, his throat clicking audibly a few times, and Steve could have wept with joy when he saw Bucky's tongue poke out from between his chapped lips to try and wet them. It didn't work very well, but Bucky still opened his mouth like he was going to speak, then winced when a ragged sound came out that practically died right there in his throat. He paused, trying again a moment later only to be met with much of the same, and so Bucky shook his head, telling Steve that talking was out of the question for him right now.

Steve grimaced, resisting the urge to run to the sink to fetch Bucky some water. God only knows how long it's been since Bucky’s had anything to drink, or eat for that matter. In fact, the longer Steve looked at him, the more he could see just how rough things have been for Bucky since he’d last laid eyes on him a year ago.

Bucky had thinned out quite a bit since then, and even through the multiple layers of dirty clothing he was wearing, Steve could see that his stomach and his cheeks were sunken in, like he'd been slowing starving to death. Bucky's skin was waxy and pale, and his shoulder-length hair was greasy and matted from where it peeked out under his ballcap. In short, he looked like he'd been through Hell and back a few times, and the deep purple bags under his eyes revealed that he hadn't been sleeping either. It damn near shattered Steve's heart like paper thin glass.

“Is it okay if I close the door?” He asked, rather than do what his body wanted to, which was crumple to the floor and sob. He caught the tiny flinch Bucky gave to his request, quickly amending it to make it seem a bit less frightening, and it felt like swallowing glass as the words crawled up and out of his throat. “You don't have to stay here if you don't want to. I won't ever keep you somewhere you don't want to be, Buck. I'll give you a key to the apartment if you want, and I won't say a word if you chose to come and go, anything to make sure you know you're here of your own free will,” Bucky’s posture relaxed a bit. Not by much, but enough to spur Steve on to keep talking. “I just want to help you in any way I can. I know you're hungry, exhausted, terrified of letting your guard down for even a second, but I can offer you the things you need, Buck. Food, water, a place to rest your head and a friend to keep you safe while you recover. I won't try and control you, and I damn sure won't ever harm you. You have my word.”

Bucky pursed his lips, eyes darting back toward the exits once again. He didn't fully trust Steve, but he couldn't deny the fact that if he didn't stop and rest soon, he'd most certainly cause himself more damage than his body can deal with right now. His healing has already been compromised by his lack of nutrition, and it's only a matter of time before his body begins to digest itself to try and keep up with the serum's demands. The process had already begun, now that he thought about it.

He came here for answers, and now Steve is offering him shelter, protection, and food. He doesn't have to stay longer than a day or two if things go to shit in a handbasket, and he'll need his strength if he has to fight off Steve again. It seemed like a logical decision to take Steve up on his offer, get some answers as to why he sees Steve's face in his memories, then choose the next step based on the information he’s gathered. It could be okay to do this. He doesn't have to stay.

Bucky gestured toward the door with his chin, letting Steve know that it was okay for him to close it. Steve does, then points toward the couch three feet from where they're standing.

“You can sit if you want.”

Bucky hesitated for a long second, taking in Steve's navy blue compression top and black joggers, the white running shoes on his feet and the beanie covering his blonde hair. Steve shifted, slowly removing his beanie and running a hand through his rumpled hair a little. The change he saw flicker in Bucky's expression was similar to when he'd removed his cowl during the fight on the helicarrier, watching the recognition flash like lightning in Bucky's eyes. His face might not be bruised and bloody, but Bucky still reacted all the same. He was seeing someone he knew, and Steve’s smile returned tenfold when Bucky stiffly shuffled toward the couch and tentatively sat down on the edge of the cushion.

Steve kept his eyes on Bucky as he locked up behind him, taking the key off the lanyard and placing it down on the coffee table in front of Bucky.

“I have a spare,” Steve murmured, gesturing toward the key with a nod of his head. “That one’s yours, pal.”

Bucky's eyes flitted down, but he didn't make a move to grab the key just yet. Steve kept the smile on his lips, turning his back to Bucky to grab him a bottle of water from the fridge. The key was gone when he turned back around, but Bucky was still there, staring at him cautiously as Steve approached and set the water down in front of him as well.

He didn't attempt to drink it while Steve was watching, and Steve was quick to figure that out when Bucky's eyes kept flicking between the water and the man hovering beside the coffee table. It made sense that Bucky wouldn't feel comfortable accepting things that are offered to him, especially while the person that offered is watching him like a hawk.

Steve licked his lips and retreated back toward the kitchen, turning his back to Bucky while he looked through the fridge for something Bucky would eat, if he even _could_ eat, that is. Steve wasn't sure if Bucky's stomach would be able to tolerate solid foods, since he never saw any evidence (on paper of otherwise) that Hydra ever fed him at all. He had the file Natasha gave him, but it only ever mentioned some sort of injection they'd give him post cryo. It never said that Bucky was fed an actual meal, or slept outside of cryo. It never mentioned if he was given clothing or not, and only vaguely stated that _‘the asset was decontaminated pre cryo’._ Whatever that meant. He just assumed that it wasn't pleasant.

None of that would have ever happened if Steve had just gone back for Bucky's body, but he was so sure that nothing would have been left intact that he didn't even let himself think that Bucky could have survived it at all.

Everything that's happened to Bucky this far, that's on Steve.

He'd spent the better part of a year tearing himself apart over Bucky and what had happened to him, turning the world upside down to try and find him and bring him home where he belonged. Countless nights he'd been awakened by nightmares, unable to sleep from the guilt he'd felt for leaving Bucky behind to rot in the snow while he went on to become a living legend. Steve has combed through that godforsaken file Natasha'd given him on Bucky's captivity so thoroughly that he could quote passages from it in his sleep, recounting the torture logs kept from 1945 to 1991.

One, in particular, that stole years off his life, was from July of 1947. More specifically, July 4th, 1947. The entry wasn't overly graphic. None of them were. They were written in a very subjective, clinical, professional way, which often downplayed the heinous nature of what really went on in that building. There were gaps between entries, sometimes spanning months or years, which Steve had to assume meant that Bucky was out of commission, and they obviously didn't log everything that happened either. There were pictures taken of Bucky during procedures, body charts documenting various injuries like an autopsy report, and a plethora of other things that made Steve physically ill to think about. But it was this one specific entry that often reared its ugly head at the most inopportune of moments, making his knees buckle and his hands shake like he was having another nonexistent asthma attack.

In the beginning, Bucky had endured long periods of ECT in an attempt to condition his mind the way they'd wanted. The Fenhoff Chair was still in its prototype phase, and wouldn't be ready for practical use until the winter of 1950, when Bucky's first wipe would actually take.

So far, they'd been using electroconvulsive therapy to alter Bucky's personality; to make him more docile and cooperative with the technicians, whom he’d often attack, even in his weakened state. But...the results were less than desirable. Bucky, who was still recovering from reanimation and the injuries he'd sustained in the fall, had grown to become erratic and especially emotional after these treatments. His first major meltdown was after he'd caught sight of the calendar hanging on the wall in the ‘treatment’ area, realizing that he'd lost two years of his life in the blink of an eye. The events that followed will continue to fuel Steve's nightmares until the day he dies.

 

> _The subject has shown outward signs of psychosis after ECT treatments. Long periods of cationic behavior have recently morphed into agitation and hysteria, screaming in his containment chamber until staff are forced to intervene and crying to the point of hyperventilation and loss of consciousness. These effects first began after the fifth round of ECT treatment. The subject was exposed to 460 volts of electricity for four cycles of fifteen minutes, with one minute of rest in between, then promptly taken back to his containment chamber. On duty staff reported the sound of hysterical crying emanating from the east wing of the building an hour after the treatment concluded, and upon arrival to the containment area, discovered the back wall of the subject's cell to be slick with blood. The subject had been attempting to claw his way out through the stone wall of his enclosure. The nails of his right hand were torn off at the lumen, and all five distal phalanx were visible through the tattered flesh. When questioned about his behavior, the subject began to scream, lashing out at staff and military personnel that attempted to subdue him, killing PVT Ungar in the process. The subject was calling out for a man named Steve, urgently claiming that he had to get to him, even as General Lukin ordered his men to use excessive force to “shut him up”. The subject was successfully rendered unconscious from a blow to the back of his head and was taken to a more secure area for further testing. General Lukin has demanded that further measures be taken to ensure the safety of his men while in contact with the subject. Restraints are to be in place at all times until further notice._

Steve was useless, frozen in the middle of the goddamn Arctic, while his best friend–the man he could count on to have his back no matter what they were up against–was screaming his name, clawing at the stone walls of his prison cell to try and get to him. Steve couldn't have failed him any more than he did then.

But he won't fail Bucky now.

No more. Never again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!

Steve stood in the entryway of the kitchen, arms crossed over his broad chest as he leaned against the wall; feigning nonchalance and failing at it miserably. His eyes were trained on Bucky, brow creased against his will and mind racing with the same thoughts he’d had for well over a year now. He'd briefly considered that he might be in a state in shock, seeing Bucky as he is and firmly believing that he was being punished by God for letting Bucky fall. There was really no other reason he could think of that would explain what he was seeing: that his oldest friend in the world was somehow still alive and in his apartment a full seventy plus years after he'd watched him die in the Swiss Alps.

It goes against the laws of nature that Bucky survived a fall from that height, traveling at a speed of 120mph, not taking into account that he was already hanging off a speeding freight train. It only took him about ten seconds for his body to hit the ground at a velocity that high, and clinically speaking, there should have been nothing left behind but pulverized flesh and blood. Going back to look for Bucky's body after the fact would have proven to be a fruitless endeavor, as Monty'd needlessly explained when Steve first suggested it. Maybe he was still in denial at the time, but part of Steve held out hope that he'd find Bucky alive out there if he went back to look. The others wouldn't hear anything about it, shutting him down before the thought even left his mouth.

 

> _“He's gone, Captain.” Monty's voice was soft next to his ear, but Steve could still pick up on the little notes of stress in his cadence. He could hear it in the thumping of Gabe's pulse, smell it in the sweat on Dugan's brow. He could see in all of them, that crushing grief that swallowed them up like a black hole, just as completely as it had with Steve. They were all mourning for Bucky, but no one's heart was as broken as Steve's over it. “I know what you're thinking, but it's just not possible. Barnes would have wanted you to remember him as he was, and believe me, you don't want a sight like that on your conscience. It's best for us to continue on, make his sacrifice count for something. Otherwise, Barnes died for nothing at all, and I know for a fact that he would give us all hell for moping about when we could be out there ending the war.”_

Steve sighed softly as he pushed the memory away. There was no point in thinking about that now, seven decades and four years later. Bucky had survived the fall, and Steve might have found him alive if he'd gone back to search the ravine like he'd wanted to, but if he'd've done that, then the world would be a very different place right now because of it. Steve has the opportunity to try and make this right, and he needs to focus on that rather than what he could have done differently all those years ago. But it's hard to live in the now when the past is oh so comforting and inviting. It's the place where Bucky is whole and untouched by the horrors of the world, where they ran around Brooklyn as two hell-raising Irish boys that gave their mothers grey hair and stress-wrinkles. It's where he could still hear Bucky's voice, light and easy with that charming touch of honey-sweet arrogance laced into his thick Brooklyn accent. Here, Bucky doesn't say a word. Probably can't for some reason he doesn't want to think about. Here, Bucky is a paranoid shell of the man he used to be, and it breaks Steve's heart to see him this way; long, unkempt hair stringing in his gaunt face, skin pale and silver eyes distant and haunted. Bucky really is just a ghost, sent from the grave to torment Steve's broken soul until the end of his days.

Bucky hadn't moved an inch in the few hours that he'd been in Steve's presence, still sitting motionless on the edge of the couch cushion, back straight and shoulders tense. Steve could hear the mechanical whirring of his left arm as the plates shifted, further reminding him that Bucky is a very different creation than the one he'd known in his youth.

He wondered what Bucky was thinking about–if he was able to think at all–watching intently as his grey-blue eyes cataloged all the visible exits in the apartment over and over again like he'd die if he didn't.

 _Front door: three seconds. Kitchen windows: five, maybe fifteen seconds if Bucky had to subdue Steve first before he made his escape. Bathroom window: five seconds. Bedroom window: six and a half. Spare room: six seconds. All and all, sloppy and far too slow for his liking. He can do better. He_ must _be better._

Sure, his skills were still just as sharp as a razor's edge, but Bucky knew that he could do better, be faster. He could blame it on the hunger, say he was too exhausted or too fucking cold to push himself any further than that, but he knew that he could, because he'd done it before. He could shove aside the aching in his bones and the gnawing hunger for the sake of the mission, could power past the cold and take refuge in the numbness of his mind to see it through to the end. He knew he could because he had to be perfect, and anything less than perfection would lead to punishment, and that was just unacceptable. But here, sitting on Steve's couch with only the ticking of the antique clock on the end table and Steve's soft breath in his ear, Bucky could feel himself slipping.

His eyes were a bit glazed and unfocused, bloodshot and lined with deep, bruising bags of exhaustion. Every few minutes or so, Bucky would lose track of where he was and why he was just sitting here on this man's couch.

_Who was he again?–Was he his handler? Was there an order he was supposed to be following? What punishment would they use for his insolence this time?_

Panic would begin to swell in his belly as the microsleep faded and reality swept back in, and Bucky would take note of each exit and how long it would take for him to escape the apartment as fast as humanly possible. He went over how many weapons he could see within reach: three Mark II knives on his person(one in each boot and one sheathed on his right side strapped to his belt), a loaded Glock on his left side under his jacket with a round already in the chamber, the pencil on the coffee table he could use to blind or deafen the target, the glass in the picture frame next to the antique clock, etc, etc…

He could count a hundred different ways that he could kill the man standing before him in under three seconds, but the thought of harming him at all made the water sitting in his gut churn, threatening to make him sick all over the rug under his boots.

 _Steve,_ he'd suddenly remember, like a splash of cold water to the face. Steve is one of the good ones. Steve is not to be harmed unless he had no other option. Somewhere deep inside of him, in the recesses of his shattered memories, he felt that Steve was someone he could trust. He didn't trust him now, for obvious reasons, but maybe with time, he could learn to do so again like his memory seemed to suggest he had before.

It was a nice sentiment, one that made Bucky's gaze flick to meet Steve's for just a quick moment, and there, in the blue of Steve’s eyes, he saw something he instantly recognized. The set of his brow, the hard line of his mouth. He's seen that look of immovable determination in Steve's eyes before; the way the green around the iris would darken and melt into rich cerulean when his mind was made up. Suddenly, he wasn't looking at the man he'd fought against a year prior. He was looking at a ghost. A memory. An emotion that only existed in the depths of his heart, where Bucky kept it safe from harm and Hydra for as long as he could. It was still Steve, but younger, smaller, frailer. That scrawny kid he'd seen sketching him on the fire escape, perched morosely in the wet dirt next to a woman's grave, surrounded by wilted rose petals. It was his little blue-eyed miracle that defied death and fate staring back at him just then, and Bucky could have wept from how much he missed the sight of him.

“Buck?” Steve noticed the shift in his demeanor almost immediately, and hope swelled his chest when Bucky's eyes began to shine with wetness. It was the first true emotion he'd seen Bucky express other than fear, but he was concerned that Bucky still hadn't been able to say a word to him so far. Not after the water or the food Steve offered, which Bucky would only consider taking if Steve wasn't watching. For the most part, Bucky has been completely silent and eerily still since he'd sat down, and Steve was rightfully worried over it. But it wasn't like Bucky hadn't attempted to speak at all. Steve could see that something was tripping him up, whether it was anxiety or some sort of speech issue caused by Hydra's mistreatment was yet to be seen, but Bucky was still trying to communicate when he could.

 _“Steve,”_ Bucky wanted to say, but his throat worked against him when he fought to speak, and a pitiful sound escaped his mouth instead. He forced himself to look away from Steve in shame, waiting for a reprimand or a vicious slap across the face for trying to speak without authorization, but nothing of the sort happened. The determined set to his features fell away in an instant, and Steve was across the room and sitting on the couch next to Bucky in less than a second. It was far too close too soon for Bucky's comfort, but his muscles clamped down and kept him where he'd sat, kept him from flinching or reeling back when Steve’s right hand closed around his left on some unspoken instinct he’d had to comfort Bucky. He didn't understand it, but it was nice, he supposed, to not be met with violence when he'd so clearly fucked up. But It would only make him weaker for it.

 

> _“Order only comes through pain,” Rumlow'd said to him a time or two, shoving the end of that damn stun baton into his belly when he was strapped down and defenseless after a wipe, claiming Bucky'd needed correction for one reason or another. He never remembered if he'd actually done whatever he was being punished for, but he knew that Rumlow was a sadistic bastard and loved to play with Bucky every once in a while._

“It's okay, Buck,” Steve said, and his grip on Bucky's hand tightened just a little against the leather glove, giving it a squeeze of reassurance that quickly snapped Bucky back to the present. “Whatever the issue is, we'll deal with it together. You're safe here, and I'll do whatever needs to be done to prove that to you.”

Bucky looked away from him. It wasn't the first time that Steve had told something of the like, that he'd been promised this or that or reassured about whatever, offered things he didn't deserve like food, water, and protection with no expectation for a return favor. Why exactly was Steve doing this? Why did he want to be kind or even be in the same room with a loaded, unstable weapon of mass destruction?– Doesn't he realize that Bucky could go off at any second? Bucky was the one who'd fractured his eye socket, broken his jaw, shot him in the gut and stabbed him through the shoulder. Why wasn't he afraid of Bucky? It didn't make any sense. Bucky was a ticking time bomb and Steve would be smart to keep his distance. Yet, here he is, holding a killer's hand and murmuring gently to him like he was a frightened child who'd just had a nightmare.

 _Steve’s heart has always been bigger than his brain,_ his mind supplied, like he'd always somehow known that about him. Had he? It would make sense, considering the circumstances.

 

> _“Too dumb to run away from a fight, huh, Rogers?”_

Bucky's face twisted into something at the thought, half fond, half exhausted. He peeked over at Steve through his curtain of greasy hair and caught the man smiling at him, cocking his head to the side like he was reading Bucky's mind. Maybe he was. Steve was always able to read Bucky better than a dime store novel–wait...where did that thought just come from?

Huh. That's odd.

“Wow,” Steve whispered, throwing Bucky off a little by how reverent he'd just sounded. “You're smiling, Buck.”

He is? Bucky flinched, unable to remember a time when he'd ever done something like that and meant it. Sure, he’d had missions when charm was required and his smile was just another weapon in his arsenal, but he'd never had a real reason to smile before. It was all fake. Just a rouse to lure in prey.

 _“You got a mouth on you like Cupid's bow, kid.”_ He'd heard someone say once, and he'd guessed that it was true, but he doesn't ever recall using it like a loaded gun before Hydra made him do so. Perhaps that's why the muzzle was used in the first place, to keep Bucky's mouth from shooting off? Who knows.

Bucky's fingertips brushed against his chapped lips, feeling the way his mouth curved up just a touch to form a sort of half-smile. It quickly melted from his face, replaced with a scowl that could freeze magma when he couldn't understand why he was smiling in the first place. What the hell did he have to smile about anyway? Nothing, that's what.

“No, no, Buck! You don't have to–I was just–” Steve's smile quickly followed suit, and he floundered to apologize for drawing attention to it in the first place. He sighed, seemingly downtrodden all of a sudden. “It was nice, seeing you smiling after all these years. You've always had such a nice smile. Everyone always said so.”

Bucky didn't know what to make of that, so he chose to bow his head and hide behind his hair again. Steve had pulled his hand away from Bucky's, and it appeared as if he was just as lost as Bucky was about all of this. Where do they go from here? How does he act around Bucky and how could he best care for him now that he's here and Steve can see how broken he is? Would Bucky even want to stay with Steve? Probably not. Steve doesn't even like himself half the time.

The silence between them thickened with tension, pregnant like a heavy rain cloud before a storm. It seemed to stretch on for aeons, and when Steve finally shook himself out of whatever stupor he was caught up in, he’d forced himself to glance to the side to see that Bucky's eyes were softly closed, his breath coming out in long, relaxed puffs that made his hair billow from where it hid his face. He was still sitting up, stock stiff and tense as all hell; like a coiled snake basking in the sunlight.

Steve blinked, unsure when Bucky'd fallen asleep next to him, but he took great comfort in the fact that Bucky had obviously trusted him enough to let his exhaustion overtake him for a moment or two. Steve didn't actually think that Bucky was genuinely asleep since he still appeared to be aware of everything around him, but it was clear that Bucky had been running on fumes for a long time, and he desperately needed to rest.

He hated what he was about to do, but he couldn't just leave Bucky like this when his body was screaming for rest. Steve had the ability to provide that for him, and he wanted Bucky to know that he didn't have to sleep with one eye open anymore.

“Buck?” Steve softly called, receiving a quiet noise of affirmation from Bucky in return. Good. So he was responding to that name now. Bucky recognized it as his own in some way, and Steve felt his belly clench a little. “Would you like to clean up a bit, maybe rest in a bed for a while?”

Bucky cracked his eyes open, turning his head to look Steve's way curiously.

“I have a guest room that's yours if you want it, and hot water that you don't have to boil on the stove like we did when we were kids. It's actually pretty amazing to just...have it there at the twist of a knob like that, hot enough to scald, y'know?”

Bucky blinked at him like he didn't understand. Of course, he doesn't remember that. He barely remembered Steve. Did Hydra even bathe him when they'd had him all those years?

“It's just a suggestion. You don't have to if you don't want to, Buck. Just thought it'd be nice to wash up and have a nap before lunch…”

Steve cut himself off. He had no idea what he was doing, and it showed. Bucky was going to leave and there was nothing Steve could do to stop him. He'd lose him again to his own idiotic–

Bucky sighed, creasing his brow like he was considering something. Steve watched as he made a fist with his left hand, placing it on the outstretched palm of his right, then raised them both up.

_‘Help’_

Bucky just signed the word help. Steve froze. The only reason he knew that was because of Clint, who used ASL when he couldn't be bothered to put his damn hearing aids in. The lazy bastard. Steve only knew the bare bones of it, but maybe Clint could teach him some if this is how Bucky wanted to communicate.

This could work. This could definitely fucking work!

Steve felt himself smile, raising his hands to sign back, showing that he understood.

_‘You need help with the bath or both?’_

Bucky paused, thinking.

 _‘Both’_ then he signed a question mark repeatedly.

He looked ashamed, eyes drifting down from Steve's face to land somewhere on the floor, hair falling forward as his face crumpled into a scowl. He must not be used to asking for help, but he seemed to trust Steve just enough to let down his guard and say that he was unsure about something. Bucky’s file never mentioned anything about basic hygiene or sleeping arrangements, so Steve figured that they either weren't provided or were just barely provided.

 _“I wasn't staying at the fuckin’ Ritz, Steve. I was given what I got and nothin’ more. You should know those bastards don't care about shit like that.”_ He could hear Bucky say in that cocksure tone that hid his annoyance. He had a point though. How much was Bucky allowed to care for himself, if at all? What exactly did ‘help’ entail here? He was about to find out, apparently, and if it made him feel more useful and a bit sentimental, well, no one could blame him for it. This was _Bucky,_ after all. Steve had nearly a century worth of stuff to make up for.

“Of course, Buck. I'd do anything you wanted me to. This is your home as well, if you want it to be.” He said with a smile, overwhelmingly relieved when Bucky gave him the barest tilt of his lips in return. It wasn't quite a smile, but it wasn't a scowl either, and Steve would take whatever he was given and be grateful for it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your feedback is always appreciated. Comments are my lifeblood😁

Bucky's heart is hammering against his ribs so loudly he'd be surprised if Steve couldn't actually hear it. Even without the enhanced abilities, Bucky's body language alone would be explicit enough to clue him in on how keyed up the man standing across from him really is, but it's much the same for Steve as well.

Bucky can smell the stress in his sweat, and it's so potent that if he flicked his tongue out he could probably taste it from where it saturated the still air between them. Like a wolf, Bucky's senses are preternatural, and he can feel the change in a person's muscles that let him know which instinct they're going to take long before they actually do so. Are they going to run like hell or stand their ground?

It's like Karpov was always telling him:  _ "Know the mind, then anticipate." _

Despite Steve's palpable anxiety, his body is firmly planted where he stands next to the tub; strong like a tree with roots above and branches below that anchor him deep into the earth. He's not going anywhere, and Bucky can't help but draw a bit of comfort from the familiarity of the image it created.

> _ "When the world comes against you and tells you to move, it is your duty to plant yourself like a tree and say: 'no, you move.'" A woman with a strong, yet elegant British accent is saying, and he's not sure why, but his heart is suddenly lodged in the throat and his belly is swirling with a strange mix of awe and envy. She's not speaking to him. She's talking to Steve. Placing her well-manicured hands on his broad chest, peering into his eyes with her warm chestnut gaze. Her ruby red lips are curled up in a killer smile. Soft brown hair perfectly coiffed in curls. She's breathtakingly beautiful, and Steve is so gone for her, much like she is for him. It's a private moment between the two of them, one Bucky isn't meant to see, but he just can't help himself. It hurts, but the smile on Steve's lips somehow made the pain seem worth it. Steve's happiness was and will always be Bucky's first priority, even when it means he has to sacrifice his own. _

Bucky blinked slowly, shifting his gaze toward Steve at the sound of his voice. The bathtub is filling with warm water, steam rising up and swirling around them both like wisps of cigarette smoke. He isn't used to bathing in water that's warmer than frigid, and the prospect of immersing himself in hot water should be a comfort to him after going so long without it, but it isn't. His fingers twitch with anxiety, and he wants to feel the weight of a cigarette dangling between his lips, to taste the tar and ash on his tongue and let it burn his lungs like rice paper. Really, he just wants something to distract him from what's about to happen.

It's strange, to want something so specific without really remembering why, but it almost feels like it's a part of who he used to be. Cigarettes and Bucky Barnes go together like whiskey and bad decisions. Like Steve's fiery temper and Bucky's strong fists. Steve never was quite able to finish the fights he'd picked, but by God could he start them.

Steve's expression crumpled when Bucky didn't respond, and belatedly, Bucky realized that he'd been calling out his name for quite some time. He was gesturing to Bucky's clothes, saying that he had some things Bucky could use while Steve took care of the ones he was wearing now. He guessed that meant Steve wanted him to strip down; to discard himself of his weapons and all the possessions he owned and submit himself to maintenance like he'd been ordered–well, ordered is the wrong word here. _Vaguely_ _suggested_ is probably a better term to use for how Steve was phrasing things with that kicked golden retriever look plastered on his face. Steve isn't his handler, and so far, he's made that point as crystal clear as he can, but Bucky has no other experience like this to draw from. He's utterly lost on why Steve is being so kind to him, or why he even cares at all.

Bucky pulled his gaze away from Steve, who was still talking–well, more like nervously rambling to fill the silence in the room when the water was shut off. Steve had his eyes on Bucky when he began to tug at his clothes, nearly swallowing his tongue in surprise when Bucky popped the button on his jeans and pulled his fly down; ridding himself of his clothing without a second thought.

Bucky disarmed without a fuss, and Steve was genuinely taken aback as he watched, surprised that there weren't more knives hidden away somewhere else on his person. But maybe that's all Bucky had to carry to defend himself in the first place, since he couldn't exactly remove his cybernetic arm. Really, the arm was all he needed anyway, and Steve had the vivid memory of a broken eye socket and a fractured jaw to prove that.

There were three Mark II knives and a Glock (as well as several leather ammo pouches and a ball grenade) laid out neatly on the closed lid of the toilet seat, all within Steve's grasp as well as Bucky's. His soiled clothing was folded and placed on the bathroom sink, and his boots were set by the opened door–which instantly reminded Steve of the way Bucky used to remove his shoes after he'd come home from work late at night.

Steve resisted the urge to smile at the thought, pointedly keeping his gaze up as Bucky removed his baseball cap and stepped into the warm water; sitting down after a second's hesitation with his knees drawn up to his broad chest, sort of like he was trying to make himself seem smaller in Steve's presence.

He did appear to be more vulnerable like this, but it wasn't really about the fact that Bucky was as naked as the day he was born, sitting like a frightened child in Steve's bathtub. Steve's seen Bucky in all his tanned glory countless times since they were both kids, and it never once made him feel uneasy, like he was seeing something sacred that wasn't meant for him. It's difficult to view Bucky's nudity as scandalous when he lived with the man in a run-down apartment with no privacy for years. Their tenement's layout was smaller than the average studio apartment, with no walls to divide the separate 'rooms' and where the bathtub was kept in the kitchen to double as a table when a wooden board was thrown over it.

Steve had seen Bucky slink into a lukewarm bath to wash up after a long day of work, and it wasn't like Bucky ever told him to buzz off or close his eyes when he'd stripped right there in the kitchen, still talking about his day like nothing about it was odd. They'd never really thought much about it, and despite the troublesome feelings that Steve was battling about Bucky from within, they'd never made it seem weird at all. The only reason he has for why his eyes won't trial downward now is  _ respect, _ because Steve knew for a fact that Bucky didn't have a lick of that when Hydra had him, and it made his blood want to boil with rage.

No, the reason that Bucky looked so frail–even when Steve knew from firsthand experience that he was anything but–was because he'd laid out the things he'd had on him for protection in a place where Steve could very easily reach them. He's telling Steve, in a language all his own, that he's trusting him to keep his word; that he won't try to harm Bucky in any way.

He can see it, the desperation for an ally. It's written in Bucky's body language, the way his eyes constantly seek out something in Steve's face (when he's not actively clocking all the exits and weapons within his reach), and Steve can see that Bucky has been so alone for far too long.

It's heartbreaking to think about. Even worse to see. The evidence of abuse was written on Bucky's skin in the form of keloid scars that spread from his left pec down to his ribs–which were, in fact, far too visible from beneath his scarred flesh. Bucky was still mostly muscle without an ounce of fat on him–much like he'd been a year prior– but his body looked gaunt and sickly now, and Steve could tell that the serum he was given was quite demanding on his body, just like Erskine's version is with Steve. How long has Bucky been starving to death? Steve wasn't sure he wanted an answer to that question.

Bucky looks up at Steve from where he's perched in the bathtub, giving him a dubious expression before his eyes dart over to the colorful bottles of soap that Steve's inadvertently collected recently. He looks lost, like he doesn't know where to start or how to ask Steve for help with such a simple task. His silver eyes are glistening with apprehension in the overhead lights of the bathroom, and before he even has a second to think things through, Steve is sinking down to his knees next to the tub and rolling up his sleeves. He just wants to make things right, and this seemed like a great place to start.

"I remember when I first came back to New York after the war was over, how different it was," Steve murmured, reaching over to grab a random bottle of shampoo and a cup from the ledge to rinse Bucky's hair out with. "The styles of people's hair and clothing had changed to somethin' I didn't understand and the buildings were taller 'n anything I'd ever seen before. The city was louder too, and so, so crowded. More so than when we were kids, y'know? Talk about culture shock."

He's talking just to talk, scooping up the water in the tub and nudging Bucky's chin back with a light tap of his fingers. Bucky gave him a look, then obediently tilted his head back to let Steve pour the water over his hair. The water in the tub was already turning grey with filth, and Steve knew that he'd have to drain and refill the tub at least once to make sure Bucky was clean, but he didn't really mind. Bucky used to do this for him when he was too weak to bathe himself. He's just returning the favor, taking care of Bucky in the way he'd always wanted to, but was never given the chance to provide. It felt nice, to let that fierce protectiveness over Bucky morph into something sweeter, gentler.

"The first place I went back to was our old tenement, hoping to find that it was still there, that a piece of our past was still around and wasn't lost to history or stolen by the Smithsonian like everything else we had."

Bucky knit his brows, listening to Steve as he squeezed a good-sized dollop of caramel-tinted liquid into his huge palm; lathering it thickly against Bucky's scalp. The scent was sweeter than Steve had been expecting, like coconut and something that vaguely reminded him of suntan lotion. It was only once he'd glanced down at the bottle that he'd noticed it was actually Natasha's, left here after she'd spent the weekend with him and Sam about a month or two ago.

Bucky didn't seem to mind the scent, if anything, it appeared to be soothing to him. His body was still tense as all hell where he sat in the warm water, but his eyes were slowly getting heavy-lidded and glazed, and his mouth was slightly parted as he tried to control his breathing; in and out in a calmer rhythm than before. It looked as if he were dreaming with his eyes cracked open, the icy irises flitting back and forth while his plush lips twitched and smacked for a few seconds at a time before abruptly stopping altogether. It was strange for Steve to witness, seeing Bucky's face twitch like that, but he didn't look like he was in any pain, so Steve didn't draw attention to it.

"Imagine my surprise when I saw what it'd become." Steve continued without missing a beat, gently scratching at Bucky's scalp as he washed his hair. "A damn laundromat, y'know? Of all the asbestos-crusted buildings they could'a repurposed, I never would'a thought our place'd been one of 'em." Steve huffed a small laugh and tapped Bucky's chin again, telling him to tip his head back as he turned the faucet back on and rinsed the suds out of his matted hair. Every so often, he'd see Bucky flinch, like he wasn't expecting for Steve's touch to be so gentle, or based off his expression, so  _ nice. _

Steve can imagine that the only touches Bucky'd been receiving over the years were the kind that bruised. When was the last time someone hugged him? It had to have been during the war, and Steve's blood went cold when he'd remembered the last hug they'd shared–when Steve pulled him out of the Hydra base in Austria. It was a quick little thing, more like a pat on the shoulder since Steve still didn't trust his strength, and if  _ that _ was the last time anyone laid a kind hand on Bucky, then Steve was surely going to be sick right here and now.

Bucky didn't interject much when Steve talked, if at all, but he did turn his head to lock eyes with Steve once his hair was rinsed and the drain was unplugged. He wasn't smiling, but his mouth was twisting up at the side like he'd wanted to but thought against it. Maybe Bucky didn't yet believe that he had anything left to smile about, which Steve could see his point, but it just made him want to try all the more; to coax out a smile from Bucky like he had before. Bucky's smiles are such a gorgeous thing, and Steve missed them terribly.

"D'you remember it–our old place?" Steve asked, not expecting much of an answer, let alone a positive one. But Bucky knit his brow and chewed his lip, raising up his hands to prove Steve wrong.

_ 'I remember sitting on the fire escape next to a boy with a crooked nose," _ Bucky began, and Steve felt his chest tighten as he watched him sign what he'd thought was impossible. Bucky remembered him like that? Did he remember that it was Bucky himself that put the bump in the bridge of Steve's nose?  _ "I think it was you from before. You liked to draw, right?' _

Steve pursed his lips, nodding.

"Yeah, Buck. I did." He said, smile parting his lips as his heart beat faster. "Still do, actually. Haven't done it in a while though."

Bucky nodded in assent, wiggling his tingling toes as the warm, grey water drained down below the balls of his feet. Steve was reaching for another bottle of soap and a comb, squeezing something thick and white into his palm and lathering it like lotion between his hands. It smelled just like the shampoo, and Bucky hummed in approval as Steve spread it all throughout his wet hair; trying to tease out the knots with the comb with very little success. They might have to just cut it shorter if Steve couldn't manage to save what was there, but that would ultimately be for Bucky to decide. The last thing Steve ever wanted to do was take away the only sense of identity Bucky had left. His longer hair might mean something more to him than it does to Steve, and so, for now, Steve would try his best to save it if he could.

"What else do you remember?"

_ 'Not much.' _ Bucky answered after a moment of thought.  _ 'It's like clips from a film. Contextless flashes of things or people, but sometimes it's voices I can't place too. But I see a lot of you, or who I think is you.' _

"You're not sure? Why's that?" Steve knew the reason why, he hoped, but he was trying not to put the cart before the horse, so to speak. His attention was on the tangle of knots the comb was currently stuck in, and he was making some promising progress with Bucky's hair, though he imagined that Bucky's scalp would be tender as hell after he was finished working them all out. If he was experiencing any sort of discomfort, Bucky didn't show it. Probably wasn't ever allowed to, now that he'd thought about it.

_ 'The kid I always see is much smaller than you. Sick, maybe?' _ Bucky answered, but Steve's knowledge of ASL was almost thoroughly exhausted at this point. He didn't catch every word that was signed, but he was still able to see the bare bones of what he was saying. He'd definitely have to give Clint a call soon, Sam as well, who'd most likely have a stroke once Steve told him what was going on. Sam knowing about Bucky was a particularly strong pill he wasn't quite ready to swallow just yet. Of course he'd have to face the music soon, but not yet. They both needed time to process all of this first before Steve introduced anyone new to Bucky.

"Yeah," Steve sighed, gliding the comb through the last untangled knot in Bucky hair. Like this, the length didn't look that bad on him at all. Then again, Bucky was always handsome in any form he took, even this one. Especially this one. "Before the serum, I was about 90 lbs soaking wet. Always sick, could hardly breathe or walk since my lungs were shit and my back was crooked. Docs said I'd be lucky if I made it to twenty-five."

Bucky had a glimmer of recognition flash in the blue of his eyes just then, and he nodded a bit slowly, like he was starting to understand. His gaze slid sideways, meeting Steve's cautiously. There was still a noticeable bump in the bridge of Steve's nose, slightly crooked like it wasn't set properly after the first break. Bucky now knows who put it there.

> _ "You just can't help yourself, can'ya?! Always gotta have the last word! Always gotta be right, even when you're wrong!" Bucky's shouting. Steve's nose is swollen and bleeding. The knuckles of his left hand are slick with blood that isn't his. He's crying, unashamedly so, and Steve is saying absolutely nothing to calm him, which only made him that much more upset. What he'd said so far had earned him a broken nose, to begin with, talking about how he might not be around for much longer and that Bucky would be better off without a burden for a best friend anyway. So it was probably for the best that Steve wasn't talking. He'd handled that left hook like a champ though. Bucky was almost proud of him for it, had it not been his fist that bloodied Steve's nose in the first place.. _
> 
> _ "The docs are wrong, ya' hear me?! Wrong!" His voice is breaking, more so than normal considering how young he is; only ten years old, which made Steve even younger. "So don't you come over here, tellin' lies like that and scarin' me half ta death, Steve. You ain't goin' nowhere without me. Nowhere I can't follow." _
> 
> _ He's scared. Anyone would be if they'd just been told that their best friend was headed toward an early grave and probably wouldn't survive the winter with the way his lungs are looking. Bucky lashed out, unthinking, and hit Steve square in the nose when he wouldn't stop to listen when Bucky said his prognosis was a crock of shit. Their lifelines are too intertwined for one to live without the other. If Steve goes, so does Bucky, and Bucky wasn't ready to die just yet. _

He is now. God, is he ready to die.

Did that mean Steve was as well?

_ 'I broke your nose once.'  _ He looks resigned, clearly unhappy about it. Steve simply smiled softly, nodding to confirm. He's remembering things he shouldn't be able to, and Steve wondered how far back his memories actually go. Does he remember the moment when they met for the first time? Steve wouldn't be able to forget that day even if his brain was scrambled and fried like Bucky's, because this man isn't just his friend, Bucky exists in the very fabric of Steve's soul. There is no Steve without Bucky. That's just the way it is, and there isn't a damn thing he can do about that. Wouldn't want to anyway.

"More than once, actually. I'm surprised it wasn't a regular thing, seeing how we used to tear into each other at the drop of a hat, most times because I said or did something stupid. But as they say, love hurts n' such." Steve chuckled a bit nervously, setting the comb down and reaching out for the detachable shower head to rinse Bucky's hair. Bucky's frown deepened, if that were even possible, but he let Steve tilt his head back and turn on the shower head, testing the water with his fingers before running it over his scalp.

Steve caught the way his arms tightened around his knees once the water hit his skin, but otherwise, Bucky didn't react beyond a tiny flinch and a whimper that was so quiet Steve thought he'd imagined it. He didn't, much to his utter horror, which only raised more disturbing questions about what Hydra was doing to him behind closed doors.

Steve was quick to shut the water off as soon as Bucky's hair was clean, which he looked grateful for. He didn't explain why he'd reacted the way he did, and Steve wasn't sure he'd wanted to ask. Decontamination can mean so many nasty things, but Steve had a pretty good idea about what that actually entailed, and he hated the very thought of it.

"Did you, uh, want help with the rest, or can you manage?" Steve asked after a long moment of silence, wanting to give Bucky some much-needed privacy for this. Bucky was staring off at nothing in particular, his mouth twitching like it was before. It took him a while to answer this time, and Steve had to repeat the question when Bucky turned confused eyes back on him.

He sighed quietly, dropping his head down and hiding behind his wet hair. Steve was beginning to see a pattern of behavior here, watching Bucky hide his face every time he felt overwhelmed in Steve's presence.

_ 'I'll be okay.' _ Was his answer, even though there was a flicker of apprehension in the way his hands moved. There was something unspoken in his body language, and Steve wasn't sure if he was just projecting his own feelings onto Bucky, or if he actually didn't want Steve to leave his side just then.

Steve paused. "You want me to stay, Buck?"

_ 'Please.'  _ Steve could practically hear the desperation in that silent word, and when Bucky refused to meet his eyes in shame, it was all but confirmed. This wasn't about Bucky's inability to bathe himself. He was very capable of doing so alone, and Steve knew that. Bucky just didn't want to be alone anymore.

Steve gave him a tired smile, resting a tentative hand on Bucky's right shoulder. Bucky flinched when he'd raised his hand, and it took every ounce of willpower Steve had to keep himself from screaming. He would burn Hydra to the ground for this. He didn't care how long it took. He didn't care if it killed him in the end. He wanted them all dead for what they'd done to his Bucky.

"I'm not going anywhere, pal. I promise. I won't leave you behind again."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your support! Your feedback means the world to me❤

The rest of the bath was more or less perfunctory, with only the clear goal of scrubbing seven decades worth of built-up grime from Bucky's skin in mind. Steve didn't use his hands for this, only a teal blue pouf that came with some of the fancy soaps and lathers he'd received in a gift set from Wanda a while back. Apparently, she thinks Steve is more high strung than a high wire act–and everyone else seems to agree, based on the sheer amount of untouched herbal teas and soothing candles he has stuffed into his cabinets–all gifts from them. It only served to punctuate the heart of the matter, that no one really knew who Steve was and how to best help him when he needed it the most.

Sam was the only exception to that, but even he couldn't give Steve what he wanted the most. No one could, simply because it wasn't a thing one could procure.

Steve needed Bucky, here, safe with him and whole again, and no one but the man himself could give Steve that. It's obvious that Steve will be waiting for quite some time to have that sense of peace about him, and he'll have to watch as Bucky stumbles and falls, trying to pick up the pieces of what's left of his life and what he's become. The man who's perched in his bathtub, that's curled up in a defensive ball with a sightless thousand-yard stare, isn't the same person that Steve grew up with. He's never going to be that easy-going, smooth-talking charmer that had a different girl on his arm every other week and a scrawny, loud-mouthed burden for a best friend weighing down the other.

That man is dead. James Buchanan Barnes–as he was then–stopped existing the moment he stepped onto the battlefield and took his first life.

In his heart, Steve knew this. Bucky'd told him this much once before, and Steve can still hear how emotionless and dry his tone was, only confirming what Bucky himself had refused to acknowledge. Something happened in Kreischberg. Something heinous and ungodly, that even the Howlies–who'd been held captive there for months–knew nothing about. No one but Bucky had ever seen what laid beyond those doors and lived to talk about it, but no matter what Steve said, Bucky refused to admit that anything at all had ever happened in that back room. It didn't change the fact that he was different, that his eyes didn't shine when he smiled–however rare a smile was after that. Bucky was hiding something ugly, and Steve could see that his soul was howling in agony as it dug its claws in deeper, and yet, he did nothing at all to help Bucky. Didn't know where to even start.

 

> _"You remember your first, Dum Dum?" Bucky asks, his voice quiet and strangely calm, given the topic. But things like that didn't seem to bother him like they did the others. Nothing bothered Bucky anymore. He was fine to anyone that asked._
> 
> _'Never better, Stevie.' He'd lie, and Steve would just let him because he couldn't do anything else._
> 
> _They're huddled around a small fire, passing a bottle of wine that Dernier was somehow able to swipe the last time they were in French cow country, swapping stories to pass the time and trying to keep out the cold as best they could. The subject switched from booze they'd liked the most, to good women back home they'd lain with, then oddly enough, to men they'd killed in the heat of battle._
> 
> _Bucky had been uncharacteristically quiet for most of the night, sitting cross-legged on the frozen dirt next to Steve and nursing that bottle of wine when the others abandoned it. Steve would've expected for Bucky to have been three sheets to the wind by now, but despite how much wine he'd drank, Bucky was surprisingly unaffected by it. Steve had his suspicions that Bucky wasn't telling him the whole truth after the rescue mission in Austria two months ago, but Bucky was adamant that Steve was just seeing things that weren't there, creating problems when none existed. Though, Steve knew better. The evidence was there, glaring him in the face and baring its teeth like a rabid dog, daring him to make a move._
> 
> _"My first kill?" Dugan offered. Bucky nodded, face utterly blank as he stared down at the flames, now dancing in the dull blue of his eyes._
> 
> _"Shit, Sarge," Dugan sighed, scratched at his chin and creasing his brow in thought. "I think he was just a private, some dumb kid at the wrong place and time, tryin' to be a hero like everyone else. Don't know much about him, but I remember that his eyes were green. Same color green as my Mary, now that I think about it. Seafoam, I think they call it."_
> 
> _Bucky didn't say anything to that for a while. No one did. What exactly could they say after hearing something like that–that a dead man's eyes were the same shade of green as the woman he loved? There was nothing to be said about it. They were all killers in the end, so what did it really matter if they were comforted? That boy was still dead, Dugan was still a murderer, and no amount of patronizing words could undo what had been done. Bucky knew that well enough. But did they?_
> 
> _"They never tell you how they all shit themselves when they die," Bucky murmured, and his distant tone has Steve's blood freezing instantly in his veins. He's not meeting anyone's gaze. Eye contact has been difficult for Bucky since Kreischberg, but it's Steve's eyes in particular that gives Bucky the most trouble nowadays. He hardly ever looks Steve in the face if he can help it and Steve pretends not to notice. "They never put that in the songs, the war stories that kids grow up hearing about."_
> 
> _No one says a word, but they all know how true that is. Nothing can prepare you for the moment when you take another life. Nothing can ever compare to the sight of another man's guts sprawled on the dirt, the way they gasp desperately for breath with that sickening gurgle in their lungs, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were the one that did that to them–to another human being._
> 
> _"My first wasn't anything like the war stories," Bucky adds despondently. "We were searching this house in Italy, going room to room, top to bottom. This guy just comes out of fuckin' nowhere, and my finger squeezed the trigger before I even recognized that he was German._ **_Boom,_ ** _" Bucky makes a firing motion with his left hand, mimicking the shot that killed the soldier. "shot him square in the belly. Could've been anyone, and I wouldn't've known who they were until after they were already dead."_
> 
> _Steve chews his lip, knowing exactly in that moment how much shit Bucky'd been carrying with him after all this time. All those images of death and carnage imprinted behind his tired eyes, all that pain curled around his heart. It's then that Steve sees how different Bucky really is now, and it all but shattered his heart completely. The man he'd known before was dead, and something else was sitting next to him, wearing Bucky's face like a mask._
> 
> _"I was so rattled by it that I didn't pull the trigger for the rest of the day." Bucky shakes his head, but his expression never changes. "Those are the real war stories. The shit ones that never make it into those propaganda films. I thought, 'that's it, Buck. You put a bullet in someone. You're not you anymore.' But then you wake up the next day, and you realize that nothing really changed. You're still you. That's always been you. You just didn't know it until then, that you're a killer. That you're capable of something like that." Bucky huffed a breath of bitter laughter, and it sounds so wrong to Steve's ears that it physically hurts him. He has no idea what to say, but he knows that anything he ever did say would be so pathetically bereft for the situation that it's laughable. So he says nothing when a few words could've meant everything, proving him a coward._
> 
> _"I shot a man no older than me in the stomach, and just left him there to rot like a dog in the street. I'm capable of that. That's who I am now. A killer."_

Bucky hadn't said much else after that, but every single one of them felt how heavy that confession was. Bucky knew that something was wrong with him, truly thought that he was colder than the ice and snow they were trudging through for the things he'd done in battle, and it's really no different from what Steve saw in Bucky now. He's broken, guilt-ridden, and shameful about the things he'd seen and done, and even if Bucky doesn't remember much from his past, that look in his eyes is still the same.

Steve helped him out of the tub once the water was drained and Bucky's body was finally clean. His skin was a light pink from the heat of the water and all the scrubbing Steve had to do, but Bucky didn't show even an ounce of discomfort while Steve was doing it. Not that Steve even thought that he would. Bucky has endured much worse than a bath over the years, so a little irritated skin is nothing for him to get worked up about.

Steve wrapped him up in a soft, white towel, which Bucky appeared to like from the way he leaned into Steve's hands, allowing the other to gently wipe the moisture from his tender skin. He did well enough for someone that hadn't been properly bathed for as long as he was held captive, but his shoulders would tense and his eyes became distant and glazed whenever Steve used the detachable shower head– like it reminded him of something unpleasant, which left more unanswered questions regarding how Hydra handled Bucky when they had to _'decontaminate'_ him after missions. Steve had an idea of what that meant, but he also didn't want to just assume things without anything to corroborate his hunch. If Steve could systematically remove the things that triggered Bucky, then perhaps he'd decide to stick around, make this place his home as well. Steve just had to know what he was dealing with first, then go from there.

"How did they–y'know...after missions?" Steve tried, unable to really finish his train of thought out loud. Not with how Bucky was just standing there, stark naked and looking down at his feet while Steve dried him off, bowing his head in submission like Steve was one of his handlers.

He wasn't, and Bucky knew that, but it would take some time for him to reprogram how he acts around others, especially someone like Steve, whose voice is both soothing yet commanding. He really doesn't know any better.

Bucky answered without any additional prompting from Steve (much to his relief), understanding the question posed quite easily. His hands moved, gesticulating back and forth like he was trying to find the right word but couldn't place it, then his fingers closed around his palms and his pinkies drew away from each other, drawing a line in front of his chest.

_'Fire hose,'_

Steve swallowed thickly, his mouth suddenly dryer than the Sahara desert. Bucky could hear Steve's throat click as it tightened, could smell his anxiety begin to rise in his gut like flood water at the confession. This distressed him, and Bucky couldn't place why that was at first. Sure, Steve was very different from anyone else he's ever known, but he genuinely cared about Bucky like he was a person worthy of such a thing. Which was ridiculous, really.

Bucky wasn't a person. They made sure he knew that fact deep within his bones, and frequently reminded him of what he was and to whom he served whenever the conditioning broke down enough for the man hidden underneath the Asset to emerge. He was a weapon. Nothing more, nothing less. They could use him as they pleased on whomever they pleased because weapons didn't have a choice in who they killed. They are extensions of their owner's hand, a means to execute their will on others. It was a simple enough concept for Bucky to understand, and oftentimes, he took solace in his lack of autonomy. Choice confused him, emotions were complicated and messy. It was easy to have those things stripped away, to have his fate rest in the hands of those that owned him. No choice meant no confusion. Everything was crystal clear.

But Steve…

Oh, Steve was so different.

Steve talked to Bucky like a person and made him promises, vowed to keep him safe and cared for. Gave him food, water, and a roof over his head, a kind hand to go with his gentle voice, and the sensation of touch that was nice and didn't scar his body. He cared for Bucky like he mattered, and it was both distressing and comforting to have such a thing when he's been without it for so long.

It made Bucky feel things he can't recall having ever felt before. It made him _want,_ and Bucky wasn't allowed to want. But, _oh,_ did he ever. He wasn't yet sure of what it was that he desired, but the yearning was getting stronger, stoked like flames into a blazing inferno.

It was Steve that lit the match, though. His hands that coaxed the flames and his breath that brought it up from nothing but a spark. All he knew was that being close to Steve made him feel warmer, and Bucky is so tired of the cold.

Steve toweled Bucky's hair dry and tossed the towel into the hamper, unconcerned with his nudity as he led him into a large room at the end of the hall that Bucky assumed was Steve's bedroom. The bed in the center of the room was large and wrapped in light grey sheets; a white duvet neatly folded near the end of the mattress. Just like the parts of Steve's apartment that he'd seen so far, the master bedroom was just as devoid of personality as everything else. The walls were white and the floors a soft beige of thick carpeting. The bedside table held a small lamp, a paperback novel that was mostly untouched, and another picture frame that appeared to be antique–all brushed metal worn with time. The photo inside, however, gave Bucky a reason to pause.

 

**March 1942**

**Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes**

**107th Infantry Regiment**

**32557038**

It was a picture of him, posing in his dress uniform with his service cap slightly canted to the side. Bucky's smiling face was cast in monochrome, the photo paper yellowing and frayed around the edges from exposure and time. Bucky cocked his head, absentmindedly inching toward it to get a better look; like a moth drawn to a flame. Steve watched him go, glancing over his shoulder while he rifled through his dresser for something Bucky could wear.

Not that that mattered all that much to Bucky. He was used to this, being nude, exposed and vulnerable before handlers. Clothing was a privilege, just like food and water, and sometimes Bucky fucked up and didn't earn them. That's just the way it was, and Bucky could see that Steve wouldn't understand their reasoning for keeping him cold and hungry when he should have been kept in top physical condition. For Hydra, it was all about control. Bucky was totally dependent on them for everything, which kept him firmly under their thumb, just where they needed him to be.

He didn't have to think for himself. Didn't need to feel complex emotions or worry about where his next meal would come from or if he'd finally succumb to the cold. He was blissfully blank, devoid of everything that once made him human– everything he saw reflecting in his photograph's eyes.

Here, he saw a young man in the prime of his life, both terrified and excited for what lies ahead. In those eyes, Bucky saw someone with an air of confidence, whose smile was genuine and infectious to all who'd witnessed it.

Bucky picked up the frame, catching sight of his gaunt reflection in the glass, like a mirror showing both his past and present self. For the first time, Bucky was able to see just how much he'd changed since the war. Since Hydra.

He looked ghoulish, with sharp cheekbones and bruised, deadened eyes. His chestnut hair had grown long enough to brush his shoulders (which his past self would have thrown a literal tantrum over, since his hair was always neat and styled so perfectly), damp and curling into a tangled mess of split ends. His jawline was covered in a thick dusting of stubble now, all sharp angles that could cut better than any knife, rather than the clean-shaven boy he saw staring back at him, still with a bit of baby fat rounding out his face.

Bucky could hardly believe that this was him. These two men were one and the same, but yet completely separate from each other. It was like staring at his own ghost, seeing what a monster he'd become–what they made him into.

He barely registered that his hands were shaking until he caught sight of Steve in the reflection of the glass as well; eyebrows drawn together in concern and sorrow. He reached out slowly, fingertips brushing against the metal of Bucky's left shoulder.

"That was taken about a month before you shipped out." Steve murmured. "You were so proud of that damn uniform, wore it when you came back to Brooklyn on leave just so I could see it too. Don't think I'd ever seen you smile that much before, but I knew you'd worked your ass off to get those Sergeant bars, and I was proud of you for it, if not a little jealous. I wanted to go with you, but I had to stay behind. I couldn't follow this time, and it ate away at me, made me bitter for it. I just wanted to be where you were, Buck, fighting the good fight by your side. Just like it'd always been."

Bucky blinked, unable to explain why his eyes were suddenly glassy and wet. Was he crying? Was that something he could even do? He doesn't remember crying before now, but he must have done so. He must have.

 

> _"I should be going." Steve's saying, leaning his crooked back against the brick wall of an empty alleyway. His voice is tight, bottom lip split and leaking blood. He'd just been in another fight, squaring off with some punk twice his size for saying some dumb shit during a film. Of course, Bucky'd stepped in and handled it as he'd always done, sending the kid off with a fat lip of his own and a bruised coccyx to boot. God only knows how many scraps this made for Steve since Bucky'd left for Wisconsin, and the thought made his chest tighten a bit too much._
> 
> _He's always gearing up for a fight, always ready to take on the whole damn world, even when he knew he'd lose. The universe didn't know what to do with Steven Grant Rogers, and neither did Bucky Barnes, come to think of it._
> 
> _"Sometimes we won't be able to have each other's backs, Stevie. Despite how hard we try." Bucky's voice is soft, his arm curling around Steve's slumped shoulders as he brings him closer to his side. Steve's bony and cold to the touch, but Bucky doesn't mind. Never did mind. He'd give anything and everything just to hold him like this, but Steve doesn't know that. "Knowin' you're here and safe is what's gonna keep me alive. I don't want you over there, facin' down guns and tanks and gettin' yourself killed. You have to stay here, pal. Give me somethin' to look forward to when I'm thousands of miles away. Something to come back for. Everyone's fightin' for something, Stevie, and it ain't no dame I'm fightin' for, that's for damn sure."_
> 
> _Steve just sighs, exasperated. "Buck, I got no right to do any less than you. I can't just sit back and do nothing! I won't!"_
> 
> _"You will, Steve, because I need you to," Bucky said, and Steve tensed at his tone of voice. Bucky wasn't going to budge an inch on this. They'd had this discussion a thousand time before, each time ending in a nasty fight that nearly came down to blows. All because Bucky'd lied right to Steve's face, making it seem like he'd enlisted on his own volition, voluntarily leaving for war when the truth was so much worse. Bucky'd been drafted shortly after Pearl Harbor, but burned the notice before Steve could see it. At the time, Bucky believed that he was doing the right thing, sparing Steve the knowledge that he'd had no choice in the matter. It was better that Steve saw him as courageous, rather than what he really was; a frightened boy of twenty-four set out to die in a war he didn't want to fight._
> 
> _Steve saw something in Bucky that he admired, a character trait he didn't see in himself. If Bucky was going to die on some God-forsaken battlefield in Europe, he'd rather do it with the knowledge that Steve still saw him as a hero; that Bucky's image wasn't tainted by his cowardice. Maybe it would make his sacrifice worth it, if Steve still carried him in his heart like he does now._
> 
> _Bucky shifts, settling his hands on Steve's shoulders while he looked him in the eye. Bucky only had one night left to say what needed to be said. This could be the last time he'd ever see Steve, and he had to let him know what's been weighing on his heart since Bucky was seventeen._
> 
> _But he can't. He won't._
> 
> _"Don't do anything stupid until I get back," he says instead, and he hates himself for it. Bucky's such a fucking coward, can't even say three little words without pussying out. Steve doesn't even miss a beat, though, saying exactly what they've said to each other every time they've had to part ways. Bucky's fate notwithstanding, this time is no different._
> 
> _"How can I? You're takin' all the stupid with you."_
> 
> _Round and round they go. They say some words, they learn they're wrong, but nothing ever changes. Now, because Bucky couldn't bring himself to be brave, nothing ever will._

Bucky's knees buckle unexpectedly as the memory fades, nearly dropping the picture frame as his body falls forward. Steve's arms are around him in an instant, holding him up from behind, and it's the closest thing Bucky's had to a hug in over seventy years.

He's whimpering, pathetically. Steve's chin is resting heavily on his shoulder, strong arms locked around his waist to keep him upright _._ But then they're sitting down on the bed and Steve is whispering something to him; an apology that Bucky doesn't understand. What does Steve have to be sorry about? He didn't have a part to play in Hydra's plan. He's not one of them. He shouldn't be saying these things, apologizing for something as simple as touch. It doesn't make any sense.

Bucky doesn't make an attempt to respond, wouldn't know what to say if he did. He just sets the picture frame back on the nightstand and goes still. The comfort is odd to him, and to be honest, he's not sure what to do with it. Eventually, Steve gets the memo, reluctantly pulling away to help Bucky get dressed in the things he'd set on the bed.

The clothes are soft and smell like a mix of Steve and some sort of floral laundry detergent, and the sour scent of his body before the bath is all but a blur to him now. It's just an old pair of sweats that Steve had after he'd been defrosted, some grey Army PTs that he'd practically lived in for a few weeks after he'd woken up in a new century. They'd brought him comfort then–although, he's not really sure why–and he's hoping that they'll bring Bucky comfort now.

They do, for the most part.

Bucky allows Steve to lay him down on the bed; him taking the left side and Steve taking the right. They're not touching anymore, but Bucky can see the longing in Steve's misty eyes as he rolled to face him.

"Close your eyes, Buck." Steve murmured, giving him a tired smile that said more than his voice ever would. "Rest. You've earned it."

Bucky hadn't earned a damn thing, and he knows it. But he knew an order when he heard one, so he does as he's told and closes his eyes. His body sagged into the mattress almost immediately, breath evening out as sleep comes to finally claim him.

It's only a few moments later when he felt it; fingers in his hair, gently combing through the damp strands, almost lovingly, if Bucky had to guess. Steve shuffled closer, still keeping some distance between them as he ran his fingers through Bucky's hair. It's nice. _So nice._

It feels familiar; comforting when it should be unwanted. The gentle touch places him in a sort of limbo, a state of being between sleep and wake. He's not sure if it's enough to put him under completely, but that doesn't matter. He knows what he needs to sleep: A cold coffin, where death and sleep are one and the same. His body's been trained to accept nothing else.

So he lies there, breathing steadily until Steve's hand slides down to rest on the mattress; falling asleep himself when Bucky doesn't move.

Hours pass, and Steve sleeps. Bucky, however, does not. It's far too warm in here for that, and he's beginning to hallucinate the longer he stays awake, stuck in this dreamy state that not quite restful.

The bed dips under Bucky's weight, and after another hour, Steve stirs himself awake. The light from the bedroom window is dim and tinted pink with dusk. He'd slept longer than he'd meant to, but that's not what causes him to panic; sitting bolt upright with a strangled gasp.

The room is dark and the spot next to Steve has gone cold. He can't hear movement in the apartment. He can't even hear Bucky's breathing.

It hits him like a bullet, then, and Steve is all but paralyzed by it.

Bucky's gone.  


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited. Please forgive any mistakes.

Steve's chest is tight, surrounded by the icy embrace of dread that all but shatters his rib cage into dust. He can't breathe, despite his best efforts to shallowly pull in air, and the harder he tries, the faster his head would spin. What a fool he was, thinking that Bucky would stay, that he wouldn't bolt the very second that Steve didn't have eyes on him. No matter what Steve's heart wants to tell him, Bucky doesn't completely trust him yet, and he most likely wouldn't put his full trust in Steve's hands for quite some time.

It's understandable, considering all that's happened.

This is a man that's been living on his own in squalor for over a year, that's confused and skittish about close contact with virtually anyone because he simply doesn't remember being anyone's anything. Bucky doesn't have the mental capacity required to form a friendship right now, even if the groundwork had already been laid nearly a century beforehand.

At best, Steve is no more than a stranger to Bucky, and he needs to remember that, even if it hurts his soul more than he can bear. Amnesia notwithstanding, Bucky is not and will never again be that boy he knew from Brooklyn. They share the same name, the same face even, but that's where the similarities end. Steve will have to relearn who Bucky is as a person now, if Bucky even wants to let Steve in, that is.

Oh, what he wouldn't give to be able to go back, say what needed to be said, do what needed to be done to keep Bucky safe. But he can't just wave a magic wand and expect all of his problems to be fixed. Wishful thinking never solved a damn thing, so why start now?

 

> _"None of us can go back." He recalls Peggy telling him, weakly clutching his hand in hers. "All we can do is our best, and sometimes the best that we can do is to start over." She's so frail, in both body and mind, and it kills Steve to see her this way; that such a strong woman is riddled with confusion and fear when her once sharp-as-a-tack mind suddenly turns against her. It took everything Steve had to not break down right then and there. The tears in his eyes never fell, but that didn't change the fact that Steve could still feel his entire world shatter in an instant, his spirit splitting apart at the seams like the hand-me-down rags he used to wear around Brooklyn._

How ironic is it, that the two people that mean the most to Steve had forgotten him. But that's his curse, the price he has to pay for playing God and choosing to live when all the odds said otherwise. They are permanently imprinted in Steve's mind, but he was forcibly stricken from theirs.

Fate has a cruel sense of irony. Of that, Steve is certain. However, in a strange twist of destiny, Bucky and Steve have ended up in the same future–both men out of their time, whereas Peggy Carter lived an entire lifetime without him. The love he has for her has never waned, but Peggy lived a fulfilling life, had a good, devoted husband and two loving children. She didn't need Steve to come to her rescue, and tragic though their story is, Peggy did just fine without him.

Bucky, on the other hand– he needs Steve. Wherever he is, whatever demons he's facing down now, he won't have to do it alone. Fate placed them here together for a reason, and after a year of endless searching, following dead leads and leaving no stone left unturned, Bucky had come to him, seeking out the one that tied The Winter Soldier to James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky remembered him. He must have if he came looking for Steve in their old stomping grounds.

He couldn't have gone far. Although, Steve can't help but be disheartened that he left in the first place. He shouldn't expect anything different, yet he foolishly believed that Bucky would stay.

Despite how raw he's feeling, Steve can't just sit around and wallow in his own grief. Bucky left, but that doesn't mean he's gone indefinitely. There's still hope that Bucky could one day return, and life wouldn't exactly be a cruel temptress if it didn't leave Steve hoping for something that may not happen.

Against his own will, Steve's feet hit the bedroom floor and he stands on unsteady legs, blue eyes flickering to the closed window and the dimming sunlight barely shining through it.

Nothing appeared to be disturbed. The window in the bedroom had been nailed shut before Steve had even moved into this apartment. Something about a draft the good-for-nothing landlord couldn't seem to fix any other way, Steve wasn't really listening. So it's doubtful that Bucky used the bedroom window to make his escape.

He made his way out into the darkened hallway, scowling when he couldn't hear anything but the street traffic outside and the damn yowling cats in the alleyway with the shattered remnants of his bathroom mirror still in it. There was no audible breathing other than his own, no detectable heartbeat inside the walls of his home.

Steve was alone, once again trapped in this barren mausoleum of his own making. He sighed, dragging his unwilling feet forward to check the rest of the apartment. Just in case he missed something.

So much for no wishful thinking.

The guest room remained untouched, just as Steve had left it, and the bathroom was still a mess of wet footprints on the tile floor and dirt rings around the lip of the tub. With the sheer amount of grime Steve had to scrub from Bucky's poor skin, he'd figured it would take a few cleanings to rid the tub of all that dirt, blood, and gunpowder that had accumulated on Bucky's flesh over the long years he was left with Hydra. After all, it took at least two cleanings to get it out of Bucky's tangled hair and nearly three until his skin finally let go of it. By the time Steve was through, Bucky was a lovely shade of pale rose from his tender scalp to his wiggling toes.

Unsurprisingly, the weapons that were laid out were missing from the toilet lid, and Bucky's boots were no longer sitting by the door. His old, soiled clothing was gone as well, and Steve hoped that he wasn't out there wearing that shit that smelled like three-day-old garbage baking in the sun. However, there was nothing for it. Bucky could do as he pleased, and Steve wouldn't tell him otherwise, even if he didn't approve. It's why he gave Bucky the key to the apartment in the first place, to show him that Steve trusted his judgment and wanted him to make his own decisions. Also to encourage mutual trust between them (not quite quid pro quo, but close enough to make Steve's belly churn), but he knew that it would take more than a damn house key to achieve something as precious as Bucky's trust.

The living room was unremarkable, the only item out of place being Steve's old sketchbook. It wasn't taken, just moved to the center of the coffee table closest to the edge of the couch; like Bucky'd sat down to leaf through it before he took off. The page he'd turned to was one of Steve's earlier sketches from 36': the layout of their old tenement from the viewpoint of the fire escape. The page next to it was just a bunch of half-finished drawings of a younger Bucky's profile and one of his mother, Sarah, back before the sickness took her.

Seeing the images again for the first time in years, Steve debated on taking his own trip down memory lane, half-way to the couch himself when his eyes caught sight of something by the front door that made him freeze dead in his tracks.

Bucky's worn and tattered combat boots were sitting neatly by the door, nestled next to Steve's running shoes on the plastic runner that was supposed to keep the hardwood floors clean. There wasn't anything else of note, but that alone was enough to get Steve's heart racing a little faster. Steve couldn't see a tactic that left Bucky barefoot on the streets of New York being any kind of useful, even if the boots were merely a ploy used to throw Steve off while he attacked.

But that's ridiculous. If Bucky wanted to hurt Steve, he could have done so while Steve was asleep.

With that thought in mind, Steve began to feel that maybe he hadn't left the apartment after all.

Steve can't recall hearing the front door open or close, or anything to indicate that Bucky was still here at all, but then again, Bucky wouldn't be known as the deadliest man on earth if he couldn't mute his movements completely. He'd remembered how unnerving it initially was that Natasha's feet didn't dare make a sound no matter what she was doing. He couldn't even hear her breathing, she was so quiet, but that was the point. Natasha was trained to be a ghost; seen as a shadow and dismissed just as quickly. Bucky was much the same way, and damn if those two weren't the best at being everywhere and nowhere all at the same time.

He decided to take a chance, softly calling out Bucky's name, knowing that he most likely wouldn't receive a response at all. Steve was still fuzzy on the exact reason that Bucky refused to speak, and he wanted to address it, really, he did, he just didn't know how to go about it.

What if it was trauma related? What if it was some ingrained Pavlovian response to remain silent, brought on by pain if he made a sound? Did Bucky expect to be hit if he spoke to Steve? There was no mistaking the delay in signed responses or the way he'd flinch when Steve asked him a question. He'd tried to use his voice initially, but something kept tripping him up and now Steve is desperate to know what that is.

The kitchen revealed nothing out of the ordinary, and the small bowl of chicken broth he'd fed to Bucky a few hours ago was still sitting in the sink, waiting to be washed. Although, the half-empty container of fried rice that Steve threw out yesterday was now completely empty when he'd decided to check the trash bin for possible clues.

Steve's face twisted into a wary frown, hoping to God that Bucky didn't think he was expected to eat from the trash when there was a fridge full of food not but three feet to his right. Habits like that are hard to break, especially if Bucky was conditioned to abstain from eating solid foods altogether. That was the reason why Steve gave him broth over anything else he'd had lying around. He'd recalled that Dr.Fine put him on a B.R.A.T diet after the helicarrier incident. No solid food for at least a week while his stomach healed from that bullet Bucky'd fired into it, then he could try eating things like bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast until he got the all clear from the doc to restart his regular diet.

He'd just assumed that Bucky's stomach wouldn't be able to tolerate anything heavy (or solid) for a while, but obviously, he was wrong.

Bucky was starving. The prominent ribs and hollow cheeks told him that much. It was just difficult to know that Bucky'd been forced to rifle through the garbage to settle his gnawing hunger when Steve failed to provide him with something more than chicken broth.

As they say, the road to destruction is paved with good intentions. It's clear that Steve is painfully out of his depth here, but what more could he do? He's trying his best.

As he'd expected, the refrigerator was left undisturbed, everything inside left alone out of fear of retribution for stealing the more edible food he'd believed was off limits for someone like him. Nothing in the kitchen told him anything else of value, and the only room left to check was the rec room that led out to the fire escape.

If Bucky wasn't there, then he most likely wasn't in the apartment.

Steve nearly chewed through his lip as he stepped over the threshold between rooms, staring at the unopened boxes of art supplies that littered the floor. His wooden easel was folded up next to the window where he'd left it, leaning haphazardly against the wall and the freezer box he'd failed to fill with anything.

The room was silent, say for the faint humming of the freezer box as it pumped out frigid air into the closed container.

...Wait a minute–

Steve blinked. He'd bought the stupid thing on the off chance he'd needed more storage for frozen shit, since Dr. Fine said he'd needed more protein in his diet, but he'd never actually used it since he brought it in here almost two years back.

It was never plugged in.

Steve's bowels turned to ice as the realization dawned on him, and he'd all but tripped over his own fucking feet just to get there faster, grabbing the closed lid and ripping it open to reveal…

Bucky. Curled into the fetal position on his right side, knees pressed into his chest, eyes softly closed and pale blue lips slightly parted like he was just peacefully sleeping in the fucking freezer. There was also a worn, black backpack settled next to Bucky's legs, the fabric handle clutched tightly in his frozen hand.

"Oh, my God," Steve shakily breathed, not even sparing a second thought for his actions as he leaned down and wrapped his arms around Bucky, hauling out all one hundred and eighty pounds of half-frozen assassin from the freezer box; falling back onto his ass with Bucky's dead weight cradled in his trembling arms.

"Shit. _Fuck!"_ Steve was panicking, unable to form anything other than breathy curses as he brushed Bucky's ice-encrusted hair from his face; checking him over frantically. "Oh, God. O-oh, Fuck! _Bucky, please!"_

There was a thready pulse just barely bouncing underneath Steve's fingertips, pressed to Bucky's neck still pillowed in the crook of Steve's elbow. Bucky's skin was ghostly pale, tinted blue under his eyes and around his mouth, the beds of his nails on his right hand and toes almost indigo in color.

He looked dead. Frozen like the image that frequently haunted Steve's nightmares.

> _Icy wind whipping through his blonde hair, sucking the breath from his lungs as he reached out his gloved left hand toward Bucky's outstretched right._
> 
> _"Grab my hand!" He's shouting over the howling wind as the train raced down the tracks, and Bucky does, well tries to, at least. His pale grey eyes are watering, and Steve can't tell if it's from the icy air slapping against his face or from fear, but it's the last thing he sees before the railing of the freight car snaps off and Bucky falls; screaming._
> 
> _Steve watches as he tumbles downward, unable to tear his eyes away until he can't see Bucky's form any longer. That scream is echoing across the snowy ravine, burrowing itself like a tick inside of his mind. If he'd just been quicker. Reached out further..._

It's a sound he hears on his loneliest nights. The ones where sleep is fitful at best and unattainable at worst.

_How long did Bucky lie there, covered in his own freezing blood and snow, waiting to die at the bottom of a rocky ravine and knowing that no one would ever find him alive?_

_What was the last thought that ran through his mind before he saw nothing but black?_

_How long was it before that Soviet patrol found him out there?_

These are the questions that plague Steve's mind at night. Wondering what Bucky must have looked like after a fall like that.

He's seeing it now, though, and even without the blood and the missing limb, it's still just as horrifying as the images his mind's conjured up over the years his guilt ate him alive.

Steve is shaking, breath coming in shallow pants as his chest constricted. He'd barely registered that he's been saying Bucky's name like a prayer, chanting it with what little voice he has to give.

His vision swims, black spots blurring up his sight as the room spins and shakes. Steve is vaguely aware that he's having an anxiety attack, that Bucky's eyes are fluttering and his left hand is moving.

Steve is thrown to his back in one dizzying second, and Bucky's eyes are snapped open and wild, glaring down at him but clearly unseeing. Steve chokes on air, strangled from the fist around his neck and the blade pressed tightly to his carotid artery.

 _"Ya ne vernus',"_ Bucky's spitting out from between clenched teeth, chest heaving and pupils dilated so wide the black nearly overshadows the blue. His voice is like nails in the garbage disposal, making Steve shudder and wince.

 _'I will not go back,'_ he said. Steve could have understood that even of he didn't know a lick of Russian. 

"Bu-cky," Steve tried, barely able to force the syllables out before black is crowding out his vision. Something in Bucky's cold and unforgiving expression changes at the sound of his broken name, and his hands are beginning to tremble, the Mark II in his left clanging against the floor as he all but throws himself off of Steve from where he'd pinned him to the ground; back hitting the edge of his improvised cryo chamber once he came back to himself a little more.

"B-bu–" Steve tried again, but this time, the darkness shadowing his eyes won over, his chest seized with the last failed attempt to draw in air, burning like fire in his lungs.

Bucky is curled in on himself, and the last thing Steve is able to see before he loses the battle with his body is one that sends a chill straight to the marrow of his bones.

Bucky is silently crying, watching from behind his folded up knees, the faint sound of muttered Russian under his shallow breath as he rocks back and forth.

_"'What have I done?'"_


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicidal ideation.
> 
> I promise that the next few chapters will be lighter in comparison to the first eleven. Thank you for your continued support ❤

> _...It wasn't your fault…"_

Darkness spotted his vision like ink spilled across paper. Eyes unfocused and lids heavy; bobbing up and down with the effort to keep them open.

> _"...Did you read the report?" There's rubble at his feet, thick smoke weakly billowing in the distance, nearly blotting out the stars of the night sky overhead. Steve's tone is as bitter as the watered down whiskey coating his tongue, eyes reddened and throat raw like he'd been screaming for hours._
> 
> _And he had, but no one was around to hear it. The only one who'd ever heard the cries of his broken heart was Bucky, and Bucky was lying at the bottom of a ravine; unable to hear Steve's lonely soul howl with anguish any longer._
> 
> _"Yes." She nods and knows all too well that there isn't much else that she can say to quell Steve's anger over losing his friend the way he did. But still, she tries because she cares. Steve doesn't have many that care about him the way that Bucky used to, and now that he's gone, he'll need Peggy's shoulder to lean on now more than ever._
> 
> _"Then you know that's not true…"_

Sound was dulled and muffled as if his head was submerged in water. Thoughts slow and syrupy thick, draining from his ears to spill across the floorboards. He thinks he hears a heartbeat over the static in his head, rabbit-like with panic from across the room.

> _"...You did everything you could…"_
> 
> _Two more inches to the left and Steve's fingers would have brushed against Bucky's. If he'd just leaned a little closer, reached out a bit further–_

Light filtered in through his eyelashes, dull and yellow from the street lamps just outside the apartment. Steve blinked slowly, drawing in a breath like he'd been starved for it and coughing once the cool air hit his burning lungs.

His throat stung and throbbed in a way that suggested he'd had a fist wrapped around it recently, and the familiar sensation of a bruise that's yet to fade across his trachea all but confirmed that theory.

It was still dark out, which meant that Steve hadn't been unconscious for long, but the sudden memory of how he'd ended up sprawled out on the rec room floor told him all he needed to know.

Bucky– blue-lipped and pale, skin ice cold to the touch and body limp like warm jelly on hot pavement.

Bucky–with his metal hand on Steve's neck and his bloodshot eyes distant and unseeing, pressing him down to the floor as he growled out words in a dialect he assumed was Russian. Steve–much like ASL–only knows enough Russian to understand the context of what's being said, but he hasn't been all that exposed to it since he woke up in a new century, so there wasn't much need for him to learn it.

Well, until now, that it.

Sure, Natasha spoke the language when she felt like it, and Barton was the only other person he saw semi-regularly that was able to speak Russian fluently, but Steve wasn't close enough with them to bother picking it up for their sakes.

As much as Steve liked to claim that his relationship with the Avengers was all one-sided and fruitless, he was just as guilty as they were when it came to showing interest in their personal lives. Steve was far too caught up in himself to worry about them, and then he wonders why the others all treat him the way they do; with the same degree of non-attachment he displays toward them.

They do care, but friendship is a two-way street, and Steve has yet to do his part to show he cared as well. It wasn't that he didn't want to be involved in their lives, but after losing everyone and everything he ever had in the blink of an eye, it's hard for him to let them in.

Steve knows how quickly the rug can be pulled out from under his feet, and he doesn't want to go through that again.

Faintly, Steve could feel the presence of another in the room where he lay; body slowly but surely coming back online from whatever had just happened.

His neck was stiff and sore, turned slightly to the left towards the stacks of unopened moving boxes that cluttered up the rec room. So, he hadn't been touched since he'd blacked out, which meant that Bucky was keeping his distance; most likely afraid that he'd hurt Steve when he was half out of his mind with hypothermia and sleep deprivation.

Steve really should have known better than to startle someone who's clearly on the knife's edge of paranoia, but all it took was one look at Bucky's slack face and pale skin and Steve's sense of self-preservation instantly evaporated into thin air. He only cared about Bucky in that moment, praying to God that he hadn't lost his soulmate to the cold again.

Steve is many things, but one thing he's not, is strong enough to watch Bucky slip through his fingers again. He won't survive a loss like that a second time. He'll make sure he doesn't.

The crash of the Valkyrie wasn't enough to kill him the first time he'd lost Bucky, despite his efforts, but he wouldn't fail the next time he tried to meet Bucky in the afterlife.

Dead or alive, he'd find a way for them to be together. No matter what obstacles lie in their way.

Steve made an attempt to sit up, groaning as his bones creaked and joints popped. As wondrous as the serum is, it still doesn't prevent things like stiff limbs and a massive crick in his neck.

He'd found that out the hard way, sleeping on the ground like a caveman out in the European Theater. He'd never once complained about their sleeping arrangements, though, Bucky had done enough of that for the lot of them.

His eyes were quick to clear away the remainder of the fog, and it was then that he noticed how little time had passed. The night sky was still as black as obsidian, the stars drowned out by bright city lights. A glance down to his wristwatch told him that it was half past twelve in the morning, and by his count, meant that he'd only lost a few hours this time.

After he'd been defrosted, Steve used to have at least two major panic attacks a day (with more than a dozen minor episodes sprinkled throughout the week) the worst of them sprouting from the Chitauri invasion, when he'd slept in his closet and punched holes in the walls when the anger and guilt became too much for him to bottle up any longer.

He'd thought he was past it; the blackouts and panic attacks that rendered him useless for days on end. But seeing Bucky's face like that was the epitome of horrifying, and everything he'd been holding inside–the fear and iniquity he tried to pretend wasn't there– violently swallowed him up like a riptide in the sea.

Steve could only imagine how he looked, eyes wide and fearful, mouth agape and gasping like a fish out of water. He must have scared Bucky half to death.

"Bu-" Steve tried, nearly choking on his own dry throat when he attempted to speak. He cleared his throat, trying once more. "Bucky?"

No response. But Steve didn't need to look very far to find him.

"Buck–"

His voice died in his throat once he saw that Bucky hadn't moved an inch. He was still curled up on the floor, knees pressed to his chest and face hidden behind a curtain of wet hair; sweat and melted ice slicking his ghostly pale skin. His back was pressed flush against the side of the freezer box, the lid still open and spewing out frigid air that made Bucky shake and shiver; teeth chattering audibly.

Steve quickly shifted onto his knees at the sight, and the way Bucky's eyes snapped into focus with deadly precision wasn't lost on him.

"Bucky, it's me. It's Steve," he said, softening his voice to almost a whisper, as if he were coaxing out a skittish animal set to attack.

But there was nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition in his gaze. Bucky was like a deer caught in the headlights, frozen with pure fear as Steve attempted to move closer to him.

Bucky's breathing was rapid and shallow, his heartbeat galloping as adrenaline coursed through his veins. His arms were wrapped tightly around his knees, but the Mark II he'd dropped when he'd previously attacked Steve was back in his right hand; clutched in a death grip that could probably bend steel.

"Otoydi ot menya!" Bucky snarled, teeth bared and the blade in his hand extended out in warning.

His right hand was trembling, pupils blown wide and muscles coiled tightly like a cobra. Steve paused for a second, recognizing the danger and choosing to ignore it.

This was Bucky.

 _His_ Bucky.

No matter how bad things may seem, Steve can see that there's still a piece of the old James Buchanan Barnes in there somewhere. He may hurt Steve, beat him to the brink of death as he'd done on that helicarrier, but he knows that Bucky won't kill him.

Wounds can heal, and Steve is just stupid and desperate enough to put his blind trust in Bucky to the test.

Steve doesn't care what happens to himself.

All that matters here is Bucky.

Steve drew in a slow, steady breath, steeling his nerves for whatever outcome this would bring about, and crawled forward.

Bucky honest to God growled at him, teeth gritted and lips pulled back, showing Steve that he meant business.

_"Otoydi ot menya!"_

Steve knew a warning when he heard one, knew that Bucky was telling him to keep his fucking distance before something terrible befell him. But Steve was bullheaded and far too confident in what he thought he saw in Bucky to heed the exhortation.

When he didn't stop, Bucky lashed out, swiping at Steve's outstretched hand with his wielded Mark II, missing his palm by a few millimeters.

"I know you," Steve is saying, low and gentle like a lullaby. "You're my friend, and you're not going to harm me, Bucky."

Bucky, despite himself, tried to back up even further into the side of the freezer box; like it would somehow swallow him whole and save him from this nightmare. There was nowhere to go, unfortunately, but forward, seeing as Steve was slowly boxing him in on all sides.

It was evident that Bucky was in some kind of triggered state, which should have been enough to cause Steve to take some caution, but he wanted to prove to Bucky–and himself–that he wasn't afraid of him.

"I _know_ you, Buck, " Steve emphasized, slowly reaching out his hand toward Bucky's face. "You won't hurt me. I _trust_ you."

Bucky's eyes were darting around the room, frantically looking for a way out without harming Steve in the process. His mind was in a state of shock, where waking dreams and memories coalesce into a kaleidoscope of terror.

He couldn't differentiate between reality and what was inside his head, and from what his brain kept telling him, Bucky was convinced that he'd seriously hurt Steve (that little blonde-haired boy that frequently haunted his dreams) in a delirious haze. Again.

That he'd lost control of himself after going so long without an incident, and quite frankly, the weight of those accusations was more than Bucky could bear.

He couldn't trust himself around other people, much less Steve, who was understanding and kind to him when no one else was.

Bucky didn't deserve Steve's kindness.

Not after what he'd done.

Not after everything—

"It's okay, Bucky," Steve's voice penetrated through the fog of self-loathing, clearing away some of the cobwebs that clung a bit too stubbornly. "You're okay. Just breathe with me, yeah? Nice and slow, alright."

Steve breathes in, holds for a beat, then slowly exhales. Bucky watched as his chest rose and fell rhythmically, still inching forward on his knees. Still reaching out his left hand toward Bucky's face, and before long, Bucky found himself mimicking Steve's breathing.

In and out. Slow and steady.

Bucky flinched hard once the tips of Steve's fingers made contact with his flushed cheek, and it was like his body was on autopilot; taking another swing at Steve with his Mark II before he could catch himself, this time slicing shallowly across the fabric at his collarbone.

Steve hissed at the sting of splitting skin and prickling blood, but still, made no effort to show any apprehension or slow the slide of his left hand as he cupped Bucky's scruffy cheek tenderly.

"It's okay to be scared," Steve whispered, giving Bucky a gentle smile despite the blood leaking through his shirt. "I'm scared too, y'know."

Bucky's eyes narrowed a bit, but his posture remained tense and closed off.

"But not of you, Buck," Steve corrected himself. "Never of you. What happened wasn't your fault. I shouldn't have grabbed for you the way I did, but when I saw you I just–"

Steve swallowed back the cresting wave of emotion, fighting to remain calm in the face of such a haunting memory.

"I can't lose you. Not like that. Not again."

Bucky remained silent, but the more Steve talked him through it, the more he seemed to come back to himself. It wasn't lost on Steve that Bucky could indeed speak (in Russian, no less), but it appeared to be only when he wasn't in control of himself, like an instinct. Or, perhaps he was just comfortable speaking in Russian over English, Steve didn't really know the reason why. But he did know that whatever the issue was, it had nothing to do with Bucky's physical ability to speak. It was all in his head.

He could work with that. If it's truly trauma-related and Bucky just feels more at ease communicating in sign language or Russian, whatever, then Steve could accommodate that and work towards getting Bucky better.

There's no enemy (physical or otherwise) that Steve wouldn't go up against for Bucky. He'd tear apart this world a thousand times if it meant that Bucky could find some sense of peace.

"You're safe with me, Buck." Steve is saying, and Bucky is fighting off the urge to sob. He can see it in his eyes, how scared Bucky was–is–and it's a conflicting feeling, knowing that Bucky remembered Steve enough to stop himself from killing him again. "You're safe, you're here in my apartment in the city. It's just me and you, pal. No one else is here. I promise. You're right where you need to be."

It was then that Bucky's resolve to keep himself away from Steve crumbled like a house of cards, and Steve was quick to draw Bucky into his arms as the first few tears slid down their faces. Bucky weakly clung to Steve's shirt, burying his face into the bloodied fabric as he shook and wept.

He could have killed Steve–the one person he has in his corner, the only tie to his past that he had left. There is no coming back from that. If he's really that far gone, then Steve should just do them both a favor a feed Bucky a bullet.

God knows how much Bucky's wanted to end his miserable existence since he'd defected from Hydra, and if his memory served him right, even before that, but there was always something (other than his handlers) that stopped him from going through with it.

Steve.

It's always been Steve.

Bucky drew himself closer to Steve, letting those large, warm hands on his back bring him comfort that he knew he didn't deserve. He should be fighting it, he shouldn't allow himself to be this close to Steve. Not when everything is still so blurry and jumbled inside his head.

He's dangerous.

He could kill Steve if he were to lose himself again, but Steve had such confidence in their bond that he placed his life in Bucky's hands without question. He _trusted_ Bucky like no one's ever done before.

That meant something indescribable to Bucky, and he knew then that Steve was right.

This is exactly where Bucky needs to be, right here with Steve.

"I've got you, Buck." Steve murmured into the side of Bucky's sweaty neck, holding him tightly and using his own body heat to help raise Bucky's temperature; which was surprisingly still low considering how long he'd been huddled up against himself. Steve didn't want to know how long he'd been inside that freezer box, but if Bucky was still ice cold to the touch then it must have been for quite a while.

The thought nearly made him sick right there and then.

"It's okay. You're okay," Steve is repeating, more for himself than for Bucky at this point, who'd gone a little slack in his arms as he began to calm down. It was evident that Steve had no idea what he was dealing with here, and eventually, he'd have to bring in outside resources to further help Bucky in his recovery. He just didn't know if now was the right time to do it. It really just boils down to how much he's hurting rather than helping Bucky in this endeavor, and if Bucky sleeping in a fucking freezer box is reason enough to create doubt, then maybe he should consider calling Sam and telling him what's happened.

Yes, Sam did tell him to move on and leave Bucky behind, but that was after a year of Steve's brooding and following breadcrumb trails that led to nowhere. He couldn't hold it against Sam for suggesting that Steve get a life. He was only trying to help, and Steve knew that.

He could absolutely trust Sam with this, maybe Clint as well when it came to the communication barrier. But will Bucky allow them to help?

He's about to find out soon.

"We're gonna be okay… Everything is gonna be okay..."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lighter chapter. But not by much 👀

Night slowly bled away with the rising sun, saturating the apartment with golden rays of warmth and light. Somehow, Steve had managed to get Bucky to come back to himself before something horrible happened, much like he had on the causeway and after the fight on the helicarrier. It was easier to get him to come down this time since he wasn't properly triggered by the codewords–just startled and delirious from sleep deprivation–but once the fog cleared from his eyes and reality set in, Steve could see the raw fear and panic that melded with the ever-present confusion and disorientation that was already there.

Bucky was terrified, both of Steve and of himself when he wasn't in control of his actions. To Bucky, having moments of dissociation like that was similar to an out of body experience; where he can hear and see everything that's going on around him, but he's powerless to influence himself in any way. 

He's just a spectator, watching from where he's trapped behind his own eyes while his body commits heinous acts he can't stop.

Being the Winter Soldier was somehow even worse than that, like being locked away in the dark for decades until someone finally pulled back the curtains to let the sun chase away the shadows. Those moments of clarity–when Bucky Barnes would once again resurface from the grave they'd buried him in–were always nauseatingly terrifying.

He'd suddenly forget where he was or what he was supposed to be doing, and the wave of violent memories The Soldier brought along had him bent over on the ground with his head between his knees and his hands clamped over his ears, like that would somehow stop the flashes of blood and gore that played behind his eyelids as if it were a flicker show.

For only a brief moment, those chains that bound The Soldier to Hydra would loosen, giving him enough slack in his leash to fight back. But Hydra had protocols for Bucky's little episodes of autonomy, and all it would take is one word and Bucky'd hit the ground like a sack of bricks, still semi-conscious but paralyzed enough for them to strap him back in _The Chair_ and fry the fight right out of him.

Bucky Barnes would be buried under the ash of his incinerated memories once more and things would go back to the status quo of mindless murder and frozen slumber. 

The cycle continued, over and over again until Secretary Pierce unveiled _Project Insight_ and The Soldier was finally scheduled for decommission due to obsolescence. 

The Winter Soldier was nothing more than a relic of the cold war, an archaic piece of equipment that malfunctioned regularly and required expensive upgrades to keep it stable enough for occasional use.

Or, in other words, The Winter Soldier was now no more useful than a 1981 IBM PC is today. Sure, it shaped the century, but it's more of an antique now that newer and faster models have come out.

The age for spies and assassins was over. The end was in sight; the light shining at the end of the tunnel. But what Bucky mistook for a guiding light to a peaceful afterlife was actually a heavenly halo revolving around a shock of military trimmed blonde hair, turning his universe on its axis and shaking him down to his core.

Those sky blue eyes were achingly familiar to Bucky, even though he couldn't place why, and all it took was one little word– a name uttered in disbelieving reverence–to kaleidoscope his monochrome world into vivid color again.

_Steve._

It's always been Steve.

His little blue-eyed miracle.

Bucky'd almost snuffed him out like a candle in the wind, and now, as he sat at Steve's kitchen table with a mug of steaming hot... _something_ and...whatever the hell that was that looked like mush and smelled unsettlingly neutral sitting in a bowl before him, he couldn't understand why Steve hadn't abandoned him yet. 

Couldn't he see that Bucky wasn't worth all of this effort? 

He didn't deserve Steve's hospitality, and he damn well didn't deserve his unfailing kindness, but something in the back of his mind told him that Steve wouldn't see things the way he did. Steve looked at Bucky like he was a diamond in the rough, and nothing Bucky could say would ever change how he felt.

Regardless, Steve wouldn't just let him walk away now that he had him back. Even though he'd told Bucky the opposite–and appeared painfully genuine to boot–Bucky didn't yet believe that Steve would let him go.

This meant too much to Steve and Bucky could see that every ounce of hope he had left in the world was riding on how things played out from here. If Bucky left, Steve would crumble into nothing, and he'd be damned if he hurt his friend _–his friend._ Jesus, that's almost too odd for Bucky to even consider _–_ like that again.

"It's poverty pudding," Steve said when Bucky continued to just stare at the blob of melted cornflakes in his bowl, scowling at it like it'd just said something offensive about his mother.

Bucky didn't make any indication that he'd heard Steve, but then again, he also hadn't said anything–signed or otherwise–since the incident with the freezer box. Steve doubted a little innocent prodding for conversation would make him break his undeclared vow of silence, but hey, he was trying his best here.

"We used to eat this slop all the time, mostly because it was cheap and it stuck to your ribs enough to feign the sensation of a full belly."

Bucky didn't so much as even look up from where he'd been glaring, but his lips pursed and his brow wrinkled as he leaned in a bit closer to the strange substance in his bowl, giving it a cautious sniff but not much more than that.

He could pick up the hint of milk, sugar, eggs, and...whatever that tan shit was that made up the bulk of it—cornflakes? There were even a few spots of deep red splashed across the canvas of Bucky's supposed breakfast, which he assumed were blueberries based upon the smell alone.

Something in Bucky's brain went fuzzy at the smell of the fruit, sending little tingles to the glands under his tongue to make him salivate more than usual. 

Steve gave him a little knowing smirk when Bucky's stomach chimed in with a low growl that mimicked distant thunder, and for some reason, he just wanted to stick his face directly into that twice baked forgotten cereal and lick the bowl until it was clean.

It could be the fact that he was literally starving to death (because this shit looked all kinds of unappetizing), but then again, self-preservation had driven him to eat out of the garbage more times than he'd like to count, so this was practically a five-star meal after what he'd been forced to dine on recently.

It didn't matter if it didn't look quite right. Anyone could follow the directions on a recipe card and not fuck it up too terribly.

But—this was Steven Grant Rogers...in the kitchen...where he'd once burned a pot of boiling water so thoroughly that the bottom of their silver pot melted out from under it…

 

 

> _"How the fuck did you burn a hole in the bottom of our only fucking pot, Steve?!"_
> 
> _Bucky is standing, flabbergasted, near the still smoking stove that was just on fucking fire, staring at Steve with utter shock and confusion through the jagged hole in the bottom of their silver cooking pot._
> 
> _"Must've left it on the flame too long." Steve shrugs, like he had no clue as to what went so horribly wrong. Or why the pot had melted. How in the fuck—_
> 
> _"Well, what the hell was even in it?"_
> 
> _"Water." Steve deadpans, and Bucky has to take a second to process that before he has an aneurysm right there in the kitchen. Steve almost burned down their tenement from trying to boil water. The absolute_ moron.
> 
> _"Steven Grant—your ma is rollin' round in her goddamn grave right now! Didn't you learn nothin'?!"_
> 
> _"See, this is why you're on kitchen duty every night, Buck. I obviously can't be trusted 'round an open flame, seeing as I could have been seriously hurt." Steve says, feigning innocence, and Bucky should have fucking known that this all stemmed from his nightly bitching about always being the one to fix up supper, despite asking Steve to step in on multiple occasions._
> 
> _That little shit!_
> 
> _"You—this was to prove a point?!"_
> 
> _"Your words, not mine, Buck," Steve answers, giving Bucky a smile that's far too sweet to fit the circumstance. Bucky's gonna throttle him. "Anyway, I'm starvin'. What's for supper?"_

A laugh is startled out of Bucky before he can catch himself, and the sound that came out, in the end, is more of a squeak than he'd like it to be, which caused Steve to snort in surprise humor as well, which, in turn, caused Bucky to keep on laughing.

He has no clue what Bucky's laughing at, but it must have been something good if it caught him off guard that suddenly. It wasn't the most dignified sound he'd ever heard Bucky make before, but it was still beautiful because of what it represented.

It hit him then, like a bat to the back of his head.

Bucky was laughing. _Actually laughing._ And for a quick second, Steve could close his eyes and believe that they were back in their cramped little tenement in 38', just sitting at the makeshift table in their kitchen, shootin' the shit and messing around on one of Bucky's rare days off from work.

Back then, Bucky's laughter (much like his winning smile) came often and easily, and it was usually him that had to drag Steve out of his self-imposed foul mood with a bad joke or a funny anecdote. 

Now it seemed that their roles were reversed, and it was up to Steve to help Bucky see the light that shone through the darkness of his world. The problem with that is that Steve was trapped in perpetual night as well, and all he had to guide him through the darkness was Bucky's ghostly moonlit glow.

It's the blind leading the blind here, but they'd find their way out eventually, so long as they had each other.

Bucky's laughter tapered off into a breathy sigh, and he glanced up to meet Steve's gaze then; soft smile falling from his lips the second that he caught Steve staring. He didn't mean to draw attention to himself, or to laugh like he had something to be happy about, it just sort of happened involuntarily, like a hiccup or a muscle twitch.

It felt strange to let loose like that, yet oddly freeing. For a moment, he was elsewhere, standing in his overheated apartment with a smaller, frailer Steve, giving him shit for melting their only cooking pot. There was no war, no Hydra, and Bucky was just...like everyone else, living the best he could and having the time of his life with Steve.

But that isn't his life anymore. Hasn't been for a very long time. Bucky's life now consisted of paranoia, anxiety, fear, and self-loathing. He was on the run from an organization that essentially owned his very soul, and would stop at nothing until they drug him back to hell again. He was a murderer, a liar, an automaton feigning humanity to blend in with society, and Bucky's life would never again be as simple as it once was.

He didn't deserve to laugh or smile, not when his teeth were stained with innocent blood; leaking from his mouth and dripping down his chin like some sort of bloodthirsty ghoul.

Steve didn't comment on the sudden shift in Bucky's mood, but the inner distress he was going through over it was painfully visible on his face as he picked up his spoon and let his eyes fall to the bowl before him.

He picked and stabbed at the blob with the rounded edge of his spoon, appetite forgotten entirely. Bucky wasn't eating it either, but that came as no surprise to Steve, who'd picked up on how uncomfortable Bucky was to do so while he was under surveillance.

Steve could hear Bucky's stomach growling, becoming more insistent the longer he waited.

"I know it may not look appealing, but I promise that it's okay to eat, Buck. You don't need my permission. Dig in if you want to." Steve murmured, pointing his spoon toward the untouched bowl. Bucky winced, biting his lip until the skin blanched white under the pressure of his teeth. 

_Yes, I do. Please, order me. Tell me to eat, Steve. Demand that I comply. Please!_

Of course, Bucky doesn't say that. He just frowns at the white table cloth and makes an aborted grab for his spoon, unable to follow through without an order while he's under Steve's watchful eye.

Bucky's stomach roared indignantly, cramping and demanding food like a petulant child. Steve was beginning to think that this was a bad idea, even though it came from a good place. He'd hoped that serving Bucky food from his past would jog his memory a bit better, but Bucky didn't even want to touch it. He looked like he was going to be sick, all of the color bleeding from his cheeks the longer he stared at it, until he was as white as a sheet of paper.

Fuck, he'd miscalculated. Badly.

"I can get you something else if you—" Steve reached across the table for the bowl, stopping abruptly when Bucky cast a pleading glance his way; shaking his head vehemently while his belly let loose another roar.

Steve licked his lips, sitting back in his chair across from Bucky with confusion written all over his face. 

What was he missing here?

Bucky floundered for a moment before raising up his pointer finger to his mouth, then drawing it down toward the table.

 _'Tell'_  

Steve frowned. "Tell you what?—oh. _Oh!"_  

Bucky nodded encouragingly, goading Steve on with that desperate look in his eyes. This was so fucking uncomfortable, but Bucky needed him to do this, so he'd do it without a fuss.

He'd thought about how he could _command_ —fuck, he was really about to become _that_ person, wasn't he?—Bucky to eat, but kept coming up with phrases that began or ended with _'please'_ , or _'if you want to'_. That doesn't exactly capture the essence of an order at all.

 _Fuck._ Where was Sam with a pep talk when he needed one? 

There was nothing for it. He just had to nut up and do it, pull out the _Captain America voice™_ he hated so much and use it on the one person who deserved it the least. But if it meant that Bucky could find some peace and gain a full belly to boot, well, what's a little more wood thrown on the self-loathing pile, hm? 

Steve chewed his lip, sifting through the files in his mind until he found what he was looking for. Never in his life did he think he'd use it in this context, but, then again, nothing should surprise him at this point.

Steve's entire life since the serum has been a shit show. A cosmic 'fuck you' from the universe. Steve's life is basically Murphy's law. 

 _"kushat',"_ Steve barked, hoping to God he'd pronounced that right. That's at least the way Natasha'd said it in the past when Steve would go days in between meals, telling him to eat with that stern look about her that screamed _'fucking try me, Rogers'_. In his defense, growing up in poverty often meant that he'd go a few days without food, and he'd forget that he was technically doing himself harm by unintentionally skipping meals. Habits like those are hard to break, and that one was ingrained in his very bones by now. He's better at getting a full three meals a day, but sometimes he still forgets that he's not dirt poor and eating all the food he has for the month in one sitting.

Baby steps, right?

Bucky's spine went ramrod straight once the word left Steve's mouth, eyes snapping forward into focus and lips parting on a silent gasp, muttering _"Ya gotov podchinit'sya,"_ so quietly Steve could barely hear it.

He had no idea what that meant, but Bucky was now mechanically shoveling the contents of his bowl into his mouth, chewing, then swallowing like it was his only task in life. His eyes were glazed, fixed on his rapidly emptying bowl blankly. It's like the lights were on but no one was home, and it scared the shit out of Steve the longer it went on. 

Perhaps using Russian to command Bucky to do something was a mistake, but it's not like Steve actually knew any of his trigger words. He just knew that words were used to activate The Soldier.

Oops. Steve could have just fucked up big time.

"Buck?" Steve hesitantly said, and Bucky's head whipped up like a dog trying to find its master's voice. Whatever glimpse of The Soldier was there beforehand was gone the instant Steve said his name, and Bucky looked a bit confused with the spoon still stuffed into his mouth, like he didn't know where he was or what the hell he'd been doing just now.

He made a questioning sound in the back of his throat, pulling out the spoon and chewing what was left in his mouth. The mild flavor of the pudding rolled around on his tongue, mixing with the sweetness of the blueberries and what little sugar there was. It was definitely familiar, but—

 _Something's missing._ His mind supplied, and the sharp tang of ginger ghosted across his palate like a barely-there kiss on the lips. Disgusting.

 _'There's no ginger.'_ Bucky signed, swallowing. Somehow that seemed to make it better. He kinda liked the mild taste of Steve's alteration over what his mother used to make, even though he only remembered the idea of her. 

He made a face. _'Don't think I like ginger."_

Steve's shoulders slumped in relief, like a mountain crumbling before his eyes. 

Back to ASL, it seemed. Bucky was starting to give Steve whiplash with how quickly he could switch between languages. But once again, Bucky seemed to prefer ASL, whereas The Soldier spoke only in Russian. Apparently, Russian was triggering to Bucky. Who would've known?

_Note to self, no more Russian commands. Also, note to self, fucking call Clint ASAP._

Steve had to get this communication barrier dealt with, then work on all the psychosomatic shit once they could actually have a verbal conversation. He was going to have to bite the bullet and call in reinforcements, and hope to God that Bucky would understand and not freak the fuck out.

Steve sighed, wistful at the memory of Bucky whining at his mom's table over the taste, and how he'd laugh when Winnie threatened to cane him with a wooden spoon, saying _'James Buchanan, we are not wasting food in this household!'_

"You despised the taste of ginger when you were a kid, so I left it out and threw some fruit in there instead. Looks like I made the right call, huh, Buck?"

Bucky nodded, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

_'Thank you.'_

Steve couldn't help but smile, despite his inner turmoil over bringing in a third party to help Bucky recover. No matter, it had to be done, for Bucky's sake.

"You don't have to thank me, Bucky. The fruit makes it yummier anyway."

Bucky shook his head, expression more sincere that Steve was used to seeing.

_"No, thank you for remembering me when I'd forgotten myself.'_


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoy ❤

It took about a full week before Steve's resolve finally crumbled into dust and he was forced to pick up the phone, opting to reach out to Barton first before Sam just for the sake of his poor blood pressure; which has been steadily climbing higher with each passing minute he's alone with Bucky.

Steve's honestly surprised that he hasn't had a stroke yet. But the night is still young, so who really knows. Anything could happen at this point.

And it's not that he's regretting his decision to take Bucky in–quite the contrary, actually–it's just that he's dealing with things far beyond the scope of his expertise, and Steve's bullheaded nature is constantly warring with his heart over whether he's actually able to help Bucky with these things at all. Especially when Steve's neck-deep in a pool of his own unresolved issues, just barely keeping his head above water. You can't exactly save someone from drowning if you're drowning too, but Steve refused to see it that way. 

At least until recently.

From the moment Steve first saw him standing in the living area of his apartment, he'd set himself firmly to the task of helping Bucky in any way that he could, his own welfare forgotten. Steve would do absolutely anything for Bucky, no questions asked, no spared thoughts about repercussions. If Bucky needed him to do it, Steve would do it. 

End of story. 

Period. 

The End.

Having said that, Steve had no idea what he was dealing with, and his inexperience would only prove to set Bucky's recovery back by a country mile every time he said or did something wrong. Which was often enough to set a fire under Steve's ass; compelling him to do what he'd said he'd do from the start, pride be damned.

And it wasn't just because Steve's stubborn ass couldn't bring itself to accept complete failure, it was also the indecisiveness of his heart, which kept flipping in between _I can handle this on my own_ and _Help! I need an adult_.  

The incident with the icebox was just the start of things to come, and much to Steve's horror, it wouldn't be the last time he'd catch Bucky doing something of the like to himself.

The first day he'd had Bucky in his care was a breeze compared to what he was dealing with now, and Steve knew that if he didn't stop trying to play the hero with Bucky, he'd inadvertently end up losing him for good. If not to Bucky's imminent departure(spurred on by a sudden burst of good judgment and clarity) than to one of the many things he'd been doing to try and flash freeze himself at night. And despite Steve's visceral reaction to the first time he'd found Bucky sleeping in the freezer box, Bucky still attempted the same damn thing three more times before Steve finally snapped and ripped the unplugged power cord in half with his bare hands, crushing the lid with a fist so Bucky couldn't use it as a makeshift cryo tank again.

He'd've done something a bit more dramatic–like throw the damn thing out the window in a petulant tantrum–if Bucky wasn't staring at him like _he_ was the one that had a malfunctioning brain. The look on Bucky's face was like dumping a bucket of ice water over his head, and just like that, Steve's anger bled out of him so quickly it nearly made his head spin.

Those wide grey-blue eyes said everything that Bucky couldn't: that he didn't know who this wrathful man was that stood before him, scaring the ever-loving shit out of him when he was supposed to be giving Bucky comfort and a sense of security. Even Steve himself had to admit that what he did was fucking crazy, but when talking did nothing to resolve the issue and Bucky either couldn't understand or didn't want to, Steve's frustration violently boiled over into white-hot rage, and it was as if another person took control of his body; yanking on his strings to command him like a puppet.

In that moment, Steve wondered if that was how Bucky felt when The Soldier took the wheel for a while. It's clear to Steve that Bucky and The Soldier are two separate entities, but the lines that divide them are blurred when Bucky is at the helm. It's like Bucky's wearing horse blinders when he's under Hydra's control, but once they're finally removed, he's forced to see everything. 

The Soldier's perspective is narrowed down to a keyhole. There is only the mission, and nothing else. He feels no fear. Pain becomes irrelevant. He sees nothing but what his handlers want him to see.

Bucky, of course, is different. He sees through the same eyes as The Soldier, and so he not only has to deal with the things he barely remembers before the war, but also what happened after, when Hydra took that boy from Brooklyn and molded him into a deadly assassin.

If it weren't for the mind wipes, Bucky would have all of The Soldier's memories cluttering up his brain as well as his own, and that included every victim he'd ever mercilessly killed, every single mission he'd ever been on while under Hydra's control.

Bucky would remember it all.

Steve is selfishly glad that he doesn't remember everything yet, and he hoped that Bucky never would. At least when it came to his crimes, that is. Bucky has a hard enough time coping with the memory of the Triskelion debacle, and so Steve is certain that anything else right now will break him beyond repair.

These memories don't just affect him. 

They affect Steve as well.

It's a hard pill to swallow, knowing the things Bucky's done. He'd read the reports from 51' to 91', saw the damage Bucky'd caused act like a ripple in a pond, spreading outward to change the flow of history.

It kept him up at night, more so than Bucky did with his insatiable need to feel the cold leech into his bones so he could sleep. 

But Bucky doesn't sleep. Hasn't slept a wink since the night Steve pulled his half-frozen body from the icebox, and because Bucky can't find rest, Steve doesn't find it either. It's shared misery in its purest form, and Steve despises it with every fiber of his being.

Bucky won't eat unless Steve commands him to, can't even squeeze out a drop of piss without Steve's express permission to do so, and hasn't been able to bathe since Steve scrubbed him raw in the tub a week prior. 

He just can't bring himself to do it unless Steve is there to hold his hand, and quite frankly, it's _exhausting._

It's only been a week and Steve is barely hanging on by a thread, dog tired and agitated, ready to claw off his skin like it's too tight against his bones. 

Even as he sits on the sofa, eyes closed and half awake, he can hear the way Bucky's pulse spikes as he takes in the seemingly innocuous bathtub for the fourth time that morning, attempting to sike himself up for something he'd rather _not_ be doing, but Steve knows, Bucky's efforts are only going to end in another panic attack.

Bucky's trying, he really is, and Steve loves him to death for it, but he's not sure how much more he can take, especially when they can't even talk about what's wrong or how they can fix it. 

The longer Bucky goes without sleep, the more confused he gets, and the less Steve is able to understand him when he signs. He's attempted to coax Bucky into using his voice, speaking in German, French, and English, sometimes even broken Russian to get him to just... _speak dammit!_

But he can't. Bucky won't say why he can't, just that he feels like his throat is sealing shut whenever he tries.

At this point, Steve feels more like a parent to a baby born with colic than he does a supportive friend. It's not Bucky's fault, but Steve can't help but get irritated when these things occur. 

Really, he's just beyond tired, and Steve's never done well when his battery is running low. He's only human, and he's trying his best, but his best just doesn't seem like it's good enough.

And he's not the only one struggling with his self-worth, trying like hell just to feel _normal_ for a change.

It's what leads Bucky here, sucking in a deep breath, staring down his porcelain foe with hard eyes like that would somehow help him stand under the shower spray for more than two damn seconds at a time.

Yes, he's considered just taking a bath, but he thought that if he could conquer just this one obstacle, then he'd've done something worthy enough to warrant Steve's hospitality; which he's beginning to sense is quickly running out.

He's not stupid. He can see how thin Steve's been stretched lately, pulled taut like taffy, ready to snap. He also knew that he's the main cause of it. It was all of his problems and self-doubt, how he constantly needed Steve's permission for this or that or to have Steve command him into doing simple fucking things that even a child could do unsupervised.

Like taking a fucking shower or holding a verbal conversation, for instance.

They're mundane tasks. Something Bucky should be able to do without even thinking about it, and yet, here he is, micro analyzing every step of the process until he inevitably works himself up into another anxious fit.

 _It's just water,_ he tells himself over and over again, and for a second, he thinks he might actually do it this time. 

If he can survive all the shit Hydra's done to him over the years, then he can survive anything. _It's mind over matter,_ he tells himself, but thinking he can go through with it and actually doing it are two separate things, and Bucky's doubt in himself can easily overpower any pep talk he tries to conjure up.

But alas, he can't just stand here all day, even though it's awfully tempting. So, Bucky pulls Steve's borrowed sweater over his head, dropping it to the floor along with his sweatpants and underwear. He takes another deep breath, willing himself to just get it over with so Steve could be proud of him and maybe Bucky could convince himself that he's really worth all of this time and attention Steve's been pouring into him, even though Steve swears up and down that he is. 

It's just difficult to believe after so many years of hearing how worthless he is. It'll take a long time to get there, and hopefully, Steve will be around on the day it actually happens.

His heart is pounding against his ribs the closer he gets to the shower, and Bucky knew that Steve could hear his racing pulse from where he's resting on the living room sofa. He swallowed, feeling his dry throat work against the panic welling up inside of his chest; growing tighter with each step he took.

With a surge of unexpected vim, Bucky stepped into the tub, wrapping his trembling fingers around the handle to turn on the water. 

The reaction is instantaneous.

Bucky's pupils expand as the cold water hits his feet. He hasn't even flipped on the showerhead yet but he knows what's about to happen. He can sense it approaching, creeping up his back like a shadow in the night, and it's just like every time before. The cold hit his skin and suddenly he's fifty years behind and over five thousand miles away, trapped in a dimly lit room with a man dressed in an old Soviet uniform. 

Bucky blinks, and he's there again.

> _Fingers, both flesh and metal alike, wrapped around the unforgiving steel of a small cage placed in a windowless concrete room. There's a drain under his bare feet, and he watches as the filth from his skin mixes with biting-cold water; swirling mesmerically in shades of gunpowder black and deep, bloody red._

_"No,"_ he rasped aloud in a vain attempt to keep himself in the present, shaking his head, but his voice is like sandpaper against his throat, and the sound of his protest died before it even had breath.

He closed his eyes, listening to the white noise of the running water, chanting over it in his head to stave off the inevitable. 

_'I'm safe. I'm safe. I'm safe. It's just a shower. The water can't hurt me. They can't hurt me anymore.'_

His breathing has picked up considerably, and he can sense that Steve can hear him if he's listening closely, just waiting for him to fail so he can swoop in and save his ass again.

 _'When did I get so pitiful?'_ he asked himself, then grit his teeth as the plunger came up and the showerhead sprang to life, pelting his skin with icy drops as piercing as lead bullets.

Granted, he should have adjusted the heat beforehand, but he never quite remembered that step until it was too late.

Bucky felt the bottom of the tub drop out from under him mere seconds after the first drops hit his face, and he's once again plunged into a memory so vivid he can actually smell the frost swirling around in the stagnant air of the bunker where they kept him. 

> _The squeak of the valve opening, frigid water bursting forth to punch him square in the chest; stealing his breath away. He'd been instructed to strip, stand near the end of the open-mouthed cage (made of crisscrossed steel bars), and face the hose head-on while he submits to decontamination post-mission._
> 
> _The glacial water burns worse than fire, and his skin reddens under the pressure to the point where it nearly blisters open. But yet, he doesn't make a sound. He knows better than to voice his displeasure, lest he face bamboo shoots jammed under the nails of his flesh hand again._
> 
> _They've threatened to remove his tongue on more than one occasion for talking when unprompted, and Bucky isn't sure why they haven't yet. Maybe they're saving that punishment for a special occasion. Regardless, Bucky's just happy to keep the appendage attached for the time being, because who really knows what tomorrow holds for him._
> 
> _"'Turn, face away.'" The technician says sternly, and Bucky does, turning obediently to let the spray pelt his back; the pain sharp like shards of glass._
> 
> _It's over in seconds, the hose shut off abruptly. But he's told to turn around again, and Bucky moves toward the mouth of the cage and hangs onto the bars tightly._
> 
> _The water isn't what he fears the most. It's the lye powder they'll cover him in after._
> 
> _The scent of stringent chemicals burn his nostrils, blanching his skin where the white powder hits. It's everywhere. In his lungs, his mouth, clinging to the exposed glans of his penis where the foreskin doesn't quite cover. And he wants to just curl into a ball and scream._
> 
> _But he doesn't._
> 
> _He can't._
> 
> _His eyes are bloodshot and watering profusely, fingers curled into fists as the powder eats away at this flesh, or so it feels that way._
> 
> _He's mercifully given a towel to wipe his face a moment later, then promptly led like cattle to slaughter toward the cryo tank, and Bucky feels himself sigh internally, because he knows that it's almost over. He just has to hang on a bit longer, and then, the ice will quickly strangle him into a sleep so peaceful he'll swear he was actually, blissfully dead._
> 
> _But right now, his skin is on fire and his dick feels like it's being slowly flayed by a dull knife. It's agony. Pure. Unfiltered. Agony._
> 
> _He steps inside the chamber when prompted, unwilling to fight back as the reinforced steel door closes, then seals shut with a shrill hiss._
> 
> _He's shivering, teeth chattering through the pain and cold so bitter it's almost mind-numbing._
> 
> _Bucky stiffens as the cold grows sharper, frigid ice climbing up his legs like some clawed creature in the night._
> 
> _He reaches out, touching the glass with his cybernetic hand, watching the techs go about their business just outside his chamber, and to them, it's just a regular Tuesday. There's nothing special about any of this, what they're doing to him. And it's then, when the fire smoldering across his naked flesh gives way to air so cold his nerve endings think he's been dipped in acid, that Bucky understands._
> 
> _He is nothing._
> 
> _He is no one._
> 
> _And that's all he would ever be._

Bucky abruptly comes to, retching violently and leaning over the length of the tub with his arms wrapped tightly around his cramping stomach, and Bucky's knees slam into the hard porcelain of the tub's floor as he goes down in a boneless heap; light-headed and disoriented as if he'd just stepped off a tilt-a-whirl.

Bucky choked around the thickness in his throat, retching again, and again until eventually his partially digested breakfast came back up to splatter against the drain; leaving him coughing and gagging for a whole different reason.

Bucky could barely hear anything over the ringing in his ears, but he thought he heard Steve's voice from the living room, speaking in a hushed tone to someone that wasn't him. 

Steve must not have heard him because he didn't come at all when Bucky hit the ground, and the nausea he was experiencing was quickly becoming an all-consuming thing, to where Bucky could focus on little else but the churning in his gut and the acid in his throat.

Tears blended seamlessly with the rivulets of cold water streaming down Bucky's ghostly pale face, and the phantom pain of fire in his groin did little to help ease his discomfort. Still, Bucky cupped himself with his metal hand, hoping the cold would help soothe the burn that wasn't even there.

Past and present we're one and the same, and Bucky huddled in on himself as tightly as he could, riding out the worst of it for what seemed like years.

But then, just when Bucky thought he'd never find his footing again, he stands; slowly rising up on jelly-like legs, leaning his full weight on his upper arms braced against the shower wall.

He inhaled deeply, releasing a breath once he'd counted to five in his head, and the world slowed down, bit by bit, just like Steve had said it would the night he'd first tried (and failed) to bathe on his own.

It had happened then, too–the flashbacks, the vomiting–and Bucky had held onto Steve's hand as he'd emptied his stomach into the toilet next to the bathtub, shaking so hard he thought he'd rip apart at the seams. 

Bucky knew it was coming this time, had anticipated being thrown back into that shower chamber, hosed down with ice and burned with caustic chemicals. But this time, he was able to catch himself on the spiral downward and now, he's standing before this enemy when he'd otherwise be kneeling.

He was _standing!_ –Well, more like leaning, but still, it's a victory for Bucky in any right!

He felt like smiling, even let his lips curl up into the beginnings of a victorious grin, but the celebration was short-lived, because there, just outside the bathroom door, was-

"Cap?"

Bucky's grin shifted into a feral snarl at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, fingers curling against the tiled wall of the shower. 

 _Intruder!_ His brain cried, and Bucky was darting out of the still running shower, quick as a panther and twice as lethal, following the voice and the smell of...what the fuck even was that? Soy sauce?

"Hey, Cap," the voice called out again, and Steve must have moved into the bedroom for something because that's where Bucky was heading; stark naked and dripping wet, a Mark II blade clutched tightly in his flesh hand. "I brought Chinese if maybe you– _oof!"_

Bucky was on him like a rabid dog before the man even finished his sentence. The white plastic bag filled with that strange smell went flying, the man's back smacking into the hardwood floor with an audible _'thud'_ as Bucky moved to straddle him; pinning him down with a knife to his throat under two hundred pounds of angry, wet assassin.

The man blinked, dishwater blonde hair a mess of bedhead and bright blue eyes wide with surprise, like he didn't expect for Bucky to get the drop on him. But based on the sheer number of facial bandages this guy's accumulated, it probably happens more often than not.

" _Woah_ -kay, maybe not," The man hissed through his teeth, grimacing. Bucky could feel his heart hammering under his flesh palm when he dug the blade of his knife into the hollow of the man's throat, hissing out _"'Don't move!'"_ In harsh Russian.

"Not moving!" The man said, and by this point, Steve had stepped out of the bedroom to see what all the commotion was, nearly choking on his own spit once he saw who Bucky had pinned to the floor in a protective rage.

"What the–Bucky, _no!"_ Steve squawked, but Bucky didn't pay him any mind. There was an intruder in his home, what did he expect for Bucky to do? Just let him go? Hell no.

 _"'Why are you here? Who sent you?!'"_ Bucky barked out, growling out the words lowly. Much to this guy's credit, he understood every word Bucky'd said perfectly, even going so far as to answer back with an almost flawless Russian accent.

 _"'Food,'"_ he squeaked, pointing his finger toward the discarded bag of Chinese food that was now in Steve's hands. _"'Cap-uh, Steve- he invited me.'"_

"Bucky…" Steve cautiously rumbled. "this is Clint Barton. He's, uh, a friend from work." 

Bucky snapped his gaze upward but still didn't move from where he was perched on top of Barton.

"Holy shit, man," Clint swallowed, and Bucky watched as the tip of the knife bobbed along with Barton's Adam's apple. "You scared the bejesus outta me."

"Is that ceramic?" Barton asked breathlessly, referring to Bucky's knife. "It feels like it might be ceramic...holy shit...I think I just peed a little."

Bucky blinked, releasing the pressure on the blade slowly. _"'You're...a friendly?'"_

"No, I'm an asshole, but I'm on your side if that's what you're asking," Barton answered, sitting up and rubbing at his slightly bleeding neck once Bucky let him go. "Cap and I go waaay back, don't we, buddy?"

"2012, at least." Steve shrugged, wincing after a moment. "I, uh, never got around to telling him you were comin', Barton."

Barton gave Steve a pointed look.

"You do realize I could'a been shivved, right?" Clint heaved a sigh, giving his wet clothes a distasteful glare as he shifted onto his knees, using the wall to help him stand a moment later. "That's not something you just let _slip,_ Cap, and If I end up dyin' over somethin' stupid, Nat'll have both our asses and his! You ever seen her scary face?"

"Uh, "

"It's fucking terrifying, let me tell you! The stuff of nightmares!" He bellowed, dramatic as all hell and flailing his arms around. He seemed to pause after that, considering himself very carefully as he turned to Steve. "Don't...don't tell her I said that, okay? I don't actually have a death wish, despite what Stark says, and y'know _–ooh, egg roll!–_ " he squeals, pausing to scoop up the rogue treat from the floor and honest to God take a monstrous bite from it; and yet still talk with a mouthful of food. "Fury also might have a thing or two to say about my untimely departure. Just a thought for later." 

Steve put his hands up in surrender, eyebrows raised. Far be it from him to throw another man under the bus like that. Besides, Clint's clothes are probably bugged anyway. There's very little that Natasha doesn't know about these days. Call it rightful paranoia after SHIELD collapsed. He's practically digging his own grave.

Barton stuffed another mouthful of egg roll into his trap, pointing at Bucky (who's still crouched defensively with a knife in his hand, dripping cold water onto the hardwood floor) with the nub that was left behind "I gotta say though, having a buck eighty of wet Soviet thrown in my lap? Even with all the pointy things, not exactly a bad time in my book, if ya ask me. But I gotta know- and please, don't take this as me complaining, 'cause I'm totally not- why exactly is your dick out?"

Bucky's eyes shift down, completely forgetting the fact that he was buck-ass nude and soaking wet. His gaze then flits toward Steve, taking in his blush and the way he's chewing on his lower lip like bubble gum, and it's actually pretty comical, in a...fucked up kinda way. This Barton guy is sort of a disaster, the type of person that eats Taco Bell from the trash and gets wasted on wine coolers at seven am on a Monday.

Bucky likes him almost instantly.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all of your feedback❤

"I was at this funeral a while back, some hotshot at the top of the KGB's corporate ladder that came down with a sudden case of untimely death." Clint began, mouth full of lo mein, duck sauce smeared across the stubble on his chin. They're crowded around Steve's kitchen table at half-past noon, stuffing their faces with dumplings and noodles while Clint yapped about anything and everything. Well, Clint was eating. Steve was listlessly poking at his lunch with his chopsticks while Bucky–thankfully, fully clothed once again– was just staring at his fried rice with something akin to contempt, patiently waiting for the order to eat that hadn't come yet.

Steve must've forgotten about that, and Bucky wasn't about to hold it against him. He looked as if he'd pass out face first in his noodles any second now, so clearly, he wasn't playing with a full deck of cards at the moment. Truth be told, neither was Bucky, and the more Clint went on with his tall tale of heroism, Bucky was starting to suspect that he wasn't working with all his faculties either. Though it was sort of...endearing, he guessed. Bucky couldn't exactly pin down why he thought that particular way about Clint, just that he did.

If he had to slap an adjective on Clint Barton it would probably have to be charming...in the oddest sense of the word imaginable, considering the circumstances.

Dressed in a tight-fighting lavender henley and black nut-huggers, a grey beanie perched atop his head to hide his unruly dirty-blonde hair. Untied black military boots on his feet with mismatched hole-ridden socks underneath, Clint Barton was the epitome of an I-Don't-Give-A-Fuck attitude, and Bucky couldn't help but admire him for it.

Yeah, Bucky didn't understand his reaction to Barton either, but he wasn't all that concerned about it. If Steve trusted Clint then Bucky did as well.

Surprisingly, it was as simple as that.

"Fury sent me to gather intel, y'know, find out why a bunch of these mafia assholes were suddenly turning up dead," Clint continued, swallowing audibly before reaching across the table with his fork for one of Steve's untouched dumplings. "Y'gonna eat that, Cap?"

"Wha–oh, no. G'head," Steve mumbled, brain slowly coming back online once he'd registered that Clint was speaking to him and not _at_ him. In all honesty, he wasn't even that hungry. Far too run down and frayed around the edges to care all that much about his overly demanding stomach.

Clint shrugged, promptly stabbed the lone dumpling with his fork like it owed him money, and Bucky was suddenly struck with the urge to laugh at the image that created in his head. _Christ,_ he must be more delirious than he'd originally thought if _that_ was doing it for him.

 _"Anywho,"_ Barton said, dragging out the vowels around another cheek full of food. Steve winced as Clint smacked his lips, clenching his jaw and cocking his head like a dog at the sound of a shrill whistle. "I start askin' 'round, right, and okay, I'll admit, my methods of espionage leaves something to be desired. But, this guy, Petrov What's-his-face starts talkin', says a couple'a his boys've met the same fate, y'know? Mysteriously died under mysterious circumstances... _Mysteriously._ Wasn't actually all that mysterious, especially once I found Nat's calling card carved into his neck. Those fuckers were gettin' what they were owed, and I sure as shit wasn't about to shed any tears over it. _"_

Steve had to agree with him there. Back in early 2009, a few key members of the KGB–later confirmed to also have ties to The Black Widow program and Hydra–started dying off like flies. The only link between them was an hourglass carved into their skin, and Natasha's told him enough over the years for him to know that each assassin has their own calling card, something to say that they were there and that the job was completed by them. Even Bucky has a calling card. A star, as it turns out. Though, Steve wasn't about to ask him about it and he doubted Clint would bring it up so soon. Even if he was a bit tactless at times, and his company wasn't always welcomed by the others.

Come to think of it, Clint's table manners also left a lot to be desired, and even though Steve felt the overwhelming urge to strangle him for talking with his mouth full, he also had to remember that _he_ was the one that called Barton over in the first place. This was all for Bucky's benefit, and that thought alone was about the only thing keeping Clint Barton alive at the moment.

Regardless of how his eating habits reminded Steve of a pig feasting at a trough, Clint was one of the only Avengers (besides Sam) he felt he might be able to relate to on a personal level. Clint Barton was an orphan, much like himself, and even though Steve hadn't lost his parents due to his father's alcoholism, he understands how that loss can affect someone. Especially if they're still young and impressionable. When it came down to it, Clint Barton was unmistakably human, and that was something Steve hasn't let himself be since the serum changed his life. 

Sometimes Steve needed to be reminded that, even though he's superhuman–surrounded by a team of demigods and superhero spies–he's still a _human_ at the end of the day _,_ and he can allow himself to just... _feel_ without it coming across as selfish _._ But let's face it, Steve is never going to think that way about himself. At least not for a while longer.

Call it glorified martyrdom, but that's always been Steve's M.O. ever since he'd learned of his father's heroic sacrifice overseas. It always drove Bucky crazy, how little Steve valued his own safety when it came to the bigger picture, and he's loath to think of what his old pal would have to say about his little stunt in the Arctic with The Valkyrie.

But that's a story for another day. Steve isn't quite ready to swallow down that horse pill of an unsatisfactory situation just yet, and he doubts he'll be ready any time soon. Bucky doesn't need to carry the weight of Steve's attempted suicide on his shoulders, mostly because Steve was sure that it would cripple him.

Steve blows out a ragged breath as Clint goes on, chin cradled in the palm of his hand, wearily leaning his elbow against the table. It wasn't that Clint's stories were dull or boring to listen to–quite the opposite, actually–it's just that Steve's heard this one before. Several times. Because Clint tends to repeat himself a lot when he's excited. The only reason Steve hadn't stopped him is because his story–outlandish as it is–seems to have captivated Bucky's attention, and he's not sure why, but he's a little envious of how Bucky's looking at him.

"Back then I was just a rookie spy, y'know? I couldn't lie worth a damn, still can't if Nat has anything to say about it. So, Petrov Long-Lastname-I-Don't-Wanna-Pronounce asks me who I am and how I knew the dead guy goin' bad in the coffin over there. Next thing I know, someone's grabbing my arm, fists are flying and I'm kickin' Russki ass like nobody's business. Ended up knocking over a candle and setting fire to the curtains."

Barton snorted, finding the whole thing more than just a little amusing. Even Steve had to admit that he would've liked to have seen that, fully knowing that he would've been having a stroke over how badly the mission was going if he were involved at all. 

"And that's not even the worst part!" Clint laughed. "I see this guy come flyin' at me with a fire extinguisher, right. So I decked him square in the nose, sent him down to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Come to find out, the dude was just the funeral director tryin' to put out the fire. Never actually got that far, and I kinda sorta maybe burned his house down. But who the fuck actually lives in a funeral parlor?! The guy was practically asking for it!"

Bucky's undivided attention had drifted from his untouched food to Barton's animated self, and Steve could see that little flicker of mirth in his steel-blue eyes that said he'd found something particularly humorous. Bucky wasn't smiling or laughing, wasn't engaging in Barton's story with comments of his own, but his posture was slowly relaxing the more Barton spoke, and it almost looked as if he were itching to say something. Maybe to tell Barton what a complete idiot he is? It's what the old Bucky Barnes would've said, but then again, Bucky isn't the same person he used to be, and Steve needed to remember that.

As Barton's story came to a close, Steve could feel a palpable shift in the air around them. Not in the literal sense, but the tension that was there this morning was all but gone. Dissolved like cotton candy in hot water. The recollection of how Barton and Bucky met just over an hour ago was still fresh in his mind. Bucky, stark naked and dripping wet from his attempted shower cut short, growling out threats in Russian as he held a knife to poor Barton's throat.

Steve really should have told him the minute he'd gotten off the phone with Clint that he was coming, but after going almost a full week without sleep Steve was just thankful he'd had the mental capacity to make the call at all.

Looking back, it _is_ pretty funny. It's a story he knows for a fact Barton will be telling for years and years to come, dragging it out (just like those gaudy Christmas sweaters he insists upon wearing to the annual Stark Holliday Extravaganza) whenever they're all gathered together just to poke fun at Steve and Bucky.

Steve smiled at the thought, but there's a bitter sadness to it because Steve isn't sure what the future holds for them.

Would there ever be a time when things could be normal for them? 

What sort of life could Bucky lead when he's the most wanted fugitive on the planet? It didn't matter that Bucky was brainwashed at the time, or that he'd sacrificed his life for the safety of the world a lifetime ago. He knows how the masses would perceive Bucky, and they'd tear him to shreds until nothing was left behind.

But Steve is also aware that he can't just hide Bucky away from the world for the rest of their unnaturally long lives. He has responsibilities to keep the public safe–which is something he signed up for when he volunteered to make himself a lab rat for Erskine–and it's only a matter of time before a dirty bomb goes off in Moscow or an EMP fries Chicago.

Evil beings will always be around for men like Steve to fight against, and he's honestly not sure where Bucky will fit into that life. _His_ life. 

There's a lot of things that Steve isn't certain about, but one thing he is and will always be sure of, is that he'd do _anything_ for James Buchanan Barnes.

 _His_ Bucky. Who worked three hard jobs just to keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. Who took him in, no questions asked, after Steve lost his mother. Who went off to war without even a proper goodbye from Steve, knowing that he probably wouldn't make it back to Brooklyn once he'd reached the front lines, and still gave Steve the dignity of his choice when he'd decided that enlisting was more important than being with Bucky on his last night home.

> _"You're really gonna do this again?" Bucky asks him, and Steve knew it was going to be an argument the second he saw that heated look in Bucky's eyes._
> 
> _But it wasn't anger he was seeing._
> 
> _It was disappointment. Maybe for thinking he'd get to spend his last night home with his best guy at his side and a pretty girl hanging off his arm. Or maybe Bucky just wanted to forget about the war and focus on the good thing he had right in front of him. Steve would never know the real reason why Bucky was so pissed because by the morning he was shipping out to Camp Leigh and Bucky was on a boat headed to Italy to join the fight._
> 
> _That was the last time they saw each other before Steve's daring rescue mission a year later. There were no letters sent between them. No way of telling if Bucky was still alive out there, cold and miserable and missing home like crazy. And Steve regrets all of it, even to this day._

Steve tries to shake himself out of his spiral downward into the repressed past, mostly because it had become unnaturally quiet after Barton told his icebreaker of a story. Wasn't like Bucky was feeling bold enough to make conversation with the voices at the table. That task was unceremoniously thrust into Steve's lap, which he begrudgingly accepted when no one else could.

Clint's eyes were curiously shifting in between Steve and Bucky, taking in Steve's sullen expression and Bucky's...well, he wasn't entirely sure what Bucky's face was doing. He raised an eyebrow in question, nodding towards Bucky once Steve caught his gaze.

"This happen a lot?"

"So far, yeah. At least a dozen times a day." Steve shrugged. He had no clue what the facial twitching was all about. He just considered that it was a ramification of Bucky's time with Hydra. The glazed over eyes, smacking lips, stuttered breath. It looked as if Bucky'd stuck a fork into an electrical socket, and Steve didn't really know what to make of it. Based upon Clint's puzzled countenance, Steve assumed that he didn't either.

These episodes never lasted more than a few seconds at a time; the longest stretching out to half a minute. Bucky’d be in the middle of doing something and then he'd suddenly stop, like someone flipped a switch inside his head.

Yes, they were rightfully concerning to Steve, but Bucky never appeared to be in any pain once they occurred, and he always came out of them okay, if maybe a little fuzzy around the edges.

Clint hummed, crossing his arms as he leaned back in the chair; thinking.

"You know, Nat used to do things like that. In the beginning, I mean."

"She did?" Steve was a bit skeptical about that, but Clint didn't have any reason to lie about it. He was the one that took Natasha in after she'd defected, so Clint would know a thing or two about caring for chemically altered ex-soviet assassins.

"Yeah," Barton said. "Not quite to this extent, but she'd be in the middle of something and then...just, her face would go blank and it was–" he sighed, waving his hand in front of his own face for emphasis. "Just nothin'. It was the freakiest shit, man. Like she was...rebooting, or something. S'only way I can really describe it."

Steve nodded, humming in understanding. That's about what it looked like with Bucky as well. A system reboot, as ridiculous as that sounds. 

"Did you ever find out what it was?"

"Seizures, caused by the horse tranquilizers those bastards used on her to keep her under control." Barton ground out between clenched teeth. It was still a bit of a sore spot for him, Steve could tell. "They'd load her up with ketamine after a mission, cuff her wrists to the bed frame to keep her from escaping. And this was in the early days of the program, when she was still just a kid. S'fuckin sick, man. Makes me pissed that I can't kill those fuckers twice for doin' what they did."

"Jesus." Steve winced, casting a cautious glance Backy's way. For the most part, Bucky'd gone back to scowling at his untouched carton of rice, most likely listening to their conversation but showing no indication that he was actually eavesdropping. It honestly looked like he was stuck inside his head, chewing over old memories and thoughts alike. But is Bucky really having seizures when these episodes occur? It was hard to say for sure since Steve has virtually no medical training whatsoever, and it made his gut churn with unease to think that Bucky was sick and Steve wasn't doing a goddamn thing to help him. 

What could he do to help in the first place?  

He doubted Bucky'd let another person poke and prod at him again, even if Steve was there to hold his hand.

"How'd they figure it out?" Steve asked, a little bit of desperation weighing down his voice. "I mean, Nat actively avoids the medical wing like the plague back at the tower. I can't imagine she'd've gone quietly."

Barton shook his head, shrugging. "It wasn't really up to her. Just so happened she'd had one of the bad ones in front of Fury. By the time she was awake and coherent again, she'd already been treated. She takes pills now, at least twice a day to keep them from happening. Sometimes she has to have shots when the pills stop working, but Nat's gotten better about the whole doctor thing, so it's not so bad anymore."

"Wait–what did you mean by 'one of the bad ones'? They got worse?"

Clint nodded. "The seizures would get longer, sometimes stretching to a few minutes at a time. Then after a while they grew to become more violent and her eyes would roll back and she'd drop to the floor and convulse like something out of those medical shows on tv. Scared the shit out of me the first time it happened. Nearly split her head open when she hit Fury's desk on the way down. Still has the scar under her right ear, now that I think about it."

"Shit...she never told me any of that."

"Nor will she, my friend. That's considered a weakness in her eyes, despite my best efforts to tell her otherwise. She's as stubborn as a mule, but I get why she thinks that way. It's just hard, y'know? Watching her struggle with something she can't control. Breaks my heart."

"Yeah," Steve murmured. He knows exactly how that feels.

"If you're worried about it, maybe I can have Nat's private doc take a look at him?" Barton offered, smiling hopefully at Steve from across the table. "He's discreet, doesn't leave a paper trail, and he's good when it comes to this type of stuff. Come to think of it, he's the guy that treated Fury after...well, _you know_. He'd just need to run a few tests and–"

Barton was cut off mid-sentence by a loud bang against the table, causing Steve to startle like he'd just heard a gun go off next to his ear.

 _"'No.'"_ Bucky barked, glaring at Barton with a cold fury smoldering in the blue of his eyes. Steve has seen that look before, that day on the causeway, then again on the helicarrier, and nothing good has ever come of it so far. _"'No tests. No doctors.'"_

Barton slowly raised his hands in surrender, eyebrows climbing up his forehead to nestle into his hairline. He'd almost forgotten that Bucky was still here, just sitting quietly, listening intently until he couldn't stay silent anymore. Surely the thought of anyone touching him like that would make him immensely uncomfortable, probably borderline hysterical based on what he's been through. 

What the hell were they thinking? Talking about Bucky like he wasn't there, making decisions for him without his input. They're no better than Hydra, making plans for his life like it was their express right to do so.

It made Steve feel disgusting, guilt settling in his gut like a lead weight. He's supposed to be different, and yet here he is. 

"Sure, pal. Whatever you want." Clint placated, keeping his voice as calm as he could make it, considering how truly terrifying Bucky could become when he was pushed too far. 

"We'd never do that without your say so, Buck," Steve added. "Ever. We shouldn't have been talking about you like that in the first place. I don't know what came over me...I'm so sorry, Bucky."

Bucky's brow furrowed and he frowned, flinching from his own tone of voice. It looked like he was confused about Steve's apology, maybe even guilty for speaking up in the first place. He didn't say a word to either of them, but it was clear that he was waiting for something to happen. A slap across the face. A shock to his neck. But not from Steve, he thought. From Barton.

Steve could see the raw panic in his eyes as he replayed that moment over in his head, fear coursing through his veins like poison. 

Bucky'd just snapped at Barton, whom he didn't even know at all. And what's worse, he refused to submit to maintenance by one of his handlers. _No–that's not right._ He doesn't have a handler anymore, right? Barton is just one of Steve's friends. He wasn't in trouble, was he?

_Was he??!!_

Shit! Why the fuck did he say that?! 

Why couldn't he just keep his big mouth shut?!

He'd just embarrassed Steve, insulted his friend like some disobedient child. Steve was going to punish him for it, wasn't he? Kick him out on the street and turn his back on him. He would– he should...

No. 

_No!_

He can't let that happen. He can't lose Steve again! He can't–

"Buck," Steve softly called, reaching out tentatively to wrap his warm fingers around Bucky's cold, shaking hand. Bucky's eyes snapped up to meet Steve's the second he felt that gentle touch, his vision blurry and cheeks wet for some reason he couldn't understand right now.

Bucky's eyes shifted to the left, seeking out Barton. Low and behold, Clint was giving him a soft smile in place of what he'd been expecting, not saying anything to calm Bucky, but then again, he didn't really need to. Bucky could see that he understood. That he wasn't about to do anything at all that put Bucky in harm's way, and that Steve wouldn't either.

Like Barton said earlier, they were on his side. Bucky just had to believe it.

"It's okay, pal." Steve is saying, low and soothing as he squeezed Bucky's hand a little, and something raw and forgotten within him cracked open at the sound of Steve's praise, flooding his chest with some unnamed emotion that made him feel as if he were drowning. But it wasn't unpleasant. It was...nice. Soothing, even. "You did good. I'm proud of you for speaking up, and no one here is gonna be upset that you spoke your mind. You don't ever have to worry about that, okay. I promise."


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed. Please forgive any mistakes. Also, I'm sorry this took me so long to update, if anyone cares at all lol I've been sick for the past few weeks and motivation for this story has been low, but the chapter is finally done after I poked at it with a stick for the past month.😅
> 
> Please leave a comment if you liked it!

“–You alright there, bud?” Barton is asking, his voice slow and muffled like Bucky's ears are full of cotton. He has a mouth full of food and soy sauce is splashed on his chin, but he's looking at Bucky like he'd just sprouted a second head; like the hydra living under his skin had finally made itself known. “You haven’t touched your food...or really anything on this table, for that matter...”

Buck doesn’t respond beyond a slow blink of his eyelids, lips parted slightly and livid eyes glassy and unfocused. He hadn't said a word beyond his little outburst–however long ago that was, and he'd be hard-pressed to speak up again after the near panic attack _that_ spurred on.

He's still reeling from the sudden spike in adrenaline; body faintly thrumming and thoughts angrily buzzing around like his skull's full of bees.

He could vaguely see that Steve and Barton were talking, exchanging uneasy looks between each other, but he couldn’t hear much over the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears; rapid like the dull drumming of a bird’s wings. It set his teeth on edge, clenching his jaw so tightly he was surprised the bone didn't splinter under the intense pressure of his bite. 

Barton's eyes narrowed, lips folding around the words Bucky could only partially hear. "–Not a fan of Chinese, I take it?–"

_Wait–what were you saying? Slow down...I don't understand–_

“–sorry, Buck–” Steve’s mouth is pressed into a thin line, the sad eyes of a wounded dog trained on him now. The surrounding sound in the room comes and goes like the tides in the ocean, stealing crucial pieces of information here and there. “–forgot–eat–” There’s a wrinkle in his brow that Bucky wants to smooth out with the pad of his thumb, and the urge is so strong he'd've thought he'd done it before on occasion when Steve’s empathy got the best of him.

 

> _“Your face’ll look like an ol’ leather handbag if you don’t quit that frownin’, Stevie.”_

Bucky’s flesh hand twitched against his thigh under the kitchen table, the warmth of Steve's skin gliding underneath the fingertips in his mind. Steve’s frown only worsened despite his mental efforts to correct it, and Bucky scowled in turn, disheartened. 

 

> _"Oh, c'mon. Smile, sweetheart. Looks good on you–"_

“Buck?” Steve’s still staring at him, deep concern for the listless automaton sitting adjacent to him gleaming in his eyes. The sound in the room abruptly rushed back in like a tidal wave, leaving him a bit startled as the volume cranked up to a loud roar, then quickly died down to a murmur again. “You with me, pal?”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to meet his at the sound of his voice, disoriented. 

There's music playing in the kitchen that Bucky doesn't recall hearing before; a slow melody in the honied voice of a woman a few decades behind them. When Steve had turned it on, he doesn't know, but...as he listened to the soft lyrics, he _remembered_ something. The song–

 _"We've only just begun, to live…"_ She sang, sotto voce–or maybe the volume on the radio was merely a whisper only he and Steve could hear. " _White lace and promises. A kiss for luck and we're on our way…"_

Bucky's entire body shuddered. He's heard this melody somewhere before, in some dark corner of his dreams where the waking light of day can't penetrate. But where–?

His eyes flutter. The voice of Karen Carpenter–warped in pitch and as deep as the pits of Hell itself–sang on as a memory took hold of him in an icy grip, and suddenly, he's elsewhere; drifting through that shadowed corner of his mind once again, where the air is frozen and his heinous depravities lie in wait, longing to tear him limb from limb.

> _September 27th, 1970. Shelbyville Indiana. The target is Uri Dankovich, 54. Hydra defector and former engineer for the USSR. He has orders to terminate the target with extreme prejudice. No witness._
> 
> _–The Soldier is set up on the 41st floor of a hotel, peering through the scope of his sniper rifle through the opened window. There's a radio playing in the background. Bucky listens as he exhales a slow breath, squeezing the trigger as soon as the target stepped into the crosshairs._
> 
> _"We've only just begun–" Uri's body hit the pavement a second later, a spray of blood and brains arcing behind him. "to live–"_
> 
> _"Отчет, Солдат."–_
> 
> _"Миссия выполнена."–_

Bucky shook his head, forcing down the 'Hail Hydra' working its way up the back of his throat like bile. His hands were shaking, skin clammy and pale. The receding memory left behind a faint ringing in his ears; Bucky thought it was comparable to having a grenade go off close to his head, which in all intents and purposes, it was.

He was left deaf and shaken in the aftermath, gripping his thighs with both hands, digging his thumbs into his knees hard enough to leave bruises; using pain to ground himself in reality once more.

His unfocused eyes stray toward Steve, seeking him out like a boat does a lighthouse in a storm. Steve is safety. Steve is acceptance. Steve is lo–

"–Bucky?" Steve is talking again, lips forming a question he didn't catch. What were they even discussing again, before?–something about a doctor, maybe? Then Bucky'd lost his shit, snarling out a Russian threat to Barton and then...he doesn't really remember.

Bucky glanced around, taking in the room. They're still seated at the kitchen table, but the clock on the wall is saying they've been sitting there for an additional forty-five minutes. 

Felt more like forty-five seconds had actually passed between Bucky's outburst and where they were now, but he doubted the clock was lying to him. He'd lost time again, trapped inside a mind that's both a maze and a prison.

How much time did he lose? How long were they sitting there staring at him?–talking to the soulless husk at the dinner table, masquerading as something human.

He had no idea what they'd been discussing while he'd been malfunctioning, but he sure as hell couldn't sit there and remain the subject of scrutiny any longer. Bucky had to prove his worth among them, show them he's still operational. He may be rusted and damaged, but he still has purpose left in him, or so he wanted them to believe. 

With his eyes still trained on Steve, Bucky tapped his stubbled chin twice, then the fingers of his flesh hand bent at the knuckle, moving in an arc to touch the flattened palm of his left.

_‘Say again.’_

Bucky rubbed his fist against his chest in a clockwise motion, eyes betraying its meaning even to someone unversed in ASL. When admitting fault–especially one as egregious as his–one must seek forgiveness. So he did.

 _'Sorry',_ he added.

Barton was staring at him as well, much the same way Steve did when he was watching Bucky sign. Although, there was a hint of excitement there in the glint of his blue eyes when normally Steve's only revealed confusion, and his hands instinctively came up to respond as a smile stretched his lips wide enough to show his teeth.

_‘You know sign language?’_

Bucky's brow creased as he slid his gaze over from Steve to Barton, nodding cautiously; unsure why Barton was so ecstatic about something so trivial. It was only when he'd glimpsed the hearing aids in Barton's ears–almost invisible to the naked eye from how deep they were set in his ear canals–that he understood.

“That’s how we’ve been communicating,” Steve interjected before Barton could say anything else on the matter. “I know enough from what I’ve picked up from you, but-”

“Not enough to hold full conversations, huh?” Barton supplied. Steve nodded. “Yeah, I can see how that would be a problem. That why you called me to come over, Cap? You didn't really say on the phone, just that Bucky was back and staying in the apartment with you.”

Steve shrugged. “Was hoping you could help tear down some of the language barrier.”

Barton hummed, scratching his chin and curling his lip in disgust when his nails scraped through the mess of soy sauce left behind in his stubble. “And here I thought my dear ol’ friend just missed my company. Should’a known better, Nat says I have no friends and she knows _everything,_ so....”

"Clint, that's not–"

"Relax, Cap, " Barton shrugged him off with a roll of his eyes. "What kinda friend would I be if I didn't bust your balls every now and again?"

Steve grimaced.

"But seriously, I'll do whatever you need me to do, man, no questions asked. I mean, how often do I get to pass on my infinite wisdom to the great Captain America and his sidekick Bucky Barnes?"

 _"Sidekick? What am I, Rin Tin Tin?"_ Echoed in Bucky's mind almost immediately after hearing that, and he scowled. Just as petulant about the title as he was back then, apparently.

"That's–" Steve sighed, the corner of his mouth curling up at the familiar sight of Bucky's irritation. He always _hated_ people calling him that, like he had nothing else to bring to the table other that being Cap's right-hand bitch. He'd proved his worth a thousand times over in the war, but because he wasn't running around Europe shooting Nazis with the American flag plastered on his chest, Bucky and his achievements were just as overlooked as the rest of the Howlies.

Steve blew out a breath through his nose. Seems like another lifetime ago..."Thanks, Barton. We appreciate any assistance you can offer."

Bucky's tongue could taste the accent on his lips as the voice in his head echoed on; mouth yearning to twist and fold over the words the same way they used to in that thick Brooklyn inflection.

> _"Ain't no way I'm wearin' tights, Stevie. You can tell Stark to shove that costume design straight up his–"_
> 
> _"He's not bein' serious, Buck." Steve is laughing, his pretty blues crinkled and his smile radiant. Like sunshine. Pure sunshine on Bucky's pale skin, warming up his icy core at just the sight of him. "Even I know it's just a joke. We're a team, yeah? All of us are equal. But I'm sure I speak for the rest of us when I say you'd look far better in tights than I ever did."_
> 
> _Steve winks for emphasis and Bucky cracks a smile, shaking his head as laughter bubbles up from his chest._
> 
> _"Now why would you go and say a thing like that for, huh?" He scolds, but there's not a hint of heat to be found in his voice. It's all joy. "Lying through your teeth to your best pal. Disgraceful, Stevie. Really. I expected better from you."_
> 
> _"Aw, c'mon, Buck." Steve grins. "I'd never lie to you."_

Bucky huffed indignantly but returned the sentiment when Steve glanced over at him, perhaps expecting him to be just as grateful for Barton's generosity as he was. He didn't know Clint Barton from Adam, but he could see that this meant a lot to Steve; being able to effectively communicate with him, understand him better.

Bucky didn't know why it mattered, but he thanked Barton for his efforts regardless, touching the fingers of his left hand to his lips then drawing them down toward the table.

_'Thank you.'_

Barton smiled that toothy grin again, extending his palm out to Bucky before drawing it back toward his chest in a swooping motion.

 _'Welcome'_ he signed, and Bucky's insides did something complicated and weird at the gesture. Seeing Barton so happy shouldn't really influence his own emotions, but somehow it is. His happiness is infectious, and the longer Bucky stared, the more he wanted to smile in return. Which was odd for him. Really odd.

Bucky wasn't one to rely on his interpersonal skills to test someone's mettle (at least, not any more), and he couldn't trust his instincts on whether said person was good or not, but something inside of him could tell that Clint Barton was one of the good ones.

He may be a stranger to Bucky, but Steve trusted him enough to befriend him, which he imagined was a feat not easily won. Bucky wondered what that was like, to have a friend he could rely on like this. Of course, Steve had claimed multiple times that he and Bucky _were_ friends, but it felt more... _complicated_ than that. 

Part of him believed that Steve was helping him just to settle the score. 

 _"I've got red in my ledger."_ The husky voice of a woman whispers in his ear. He thinks he recognizes it, but her face and name eluded him like smoke. It makes his head hurt to try and chase it. _"I'd like to wipe it out."_

A life for a life. A debt repaid.

Bucky pulled him from the Potomac, saving his life when he was clearly tasked to do the exact opposite. This was just the same thing, wasn't it? Kindness perpetrated out of guilt–perhaps duty, or some misplaced attachment to a ghost from Steve's past, if his memories were to be trusted at all.

They were once something to each other, but how did that bond translate to the here and now, after seventy odd years of separation, brainwashing, torture, and an endless battle with anger issues and undiagnosed PTSD?

The simple answer was that it didn't. Bucky wasn't who Steve believed him to be, and too much time had passed for that version of himself to be resurrected from his icy tomb. Right?

He doesn't know much about his past, but there is one thing he's certain of; that the man Steve knew, the man Bucky used to be, would rather die than commit the heinous crimes he had at the command of the enemy. That person was a good man worthy of Steve's devotion, and Bucky, as he existed now, is not.

Steve was saying something to Barton that Bucky was too preoccupied to hear, frowning at the tablecloth like it'd somehow personally offended him. But before Bucky could catch Barton's reply, Steve's phone began to vibrate obnoxiously against its spot on the table, the screen lighting up with a picture of Wilson that made the color leech out of Steve's face like he'd just seen a ghost.

Perhaps he had. Bucky wasn't sure of anything anymore, much less that he'd seen Wilson alive and well with Steve a month or so back.

He's hallucinated things he'd thought we're true before, so what's to say he hadn't done it again with Wilson?

Steve bit his lip until the blanched flesh under his teeth was just as white as the rest of him, making a decision in his head he'd hoped he wouldn't regret.

"I gotta take this," Steve muttered with an air of reservation. His eyes darted in between Barton and Bucky, asking a silent question that only Barton answered out loud.

"Go 'head, man." Barton shrugged, but his eyes were smiling when his tone was otherwise noncommittal; mouth drawn in a thin line. "Step outside if you need to. Me and Buckster Brown over here'll be just fine."

Steve looked at Bucky; phone still ringing in his hand. The first instinct Bucky had was to reach for him, make sure he'd stay close while Barton was here. As much as he liked Barton, he wasn't chomping at the bit to be alone with him anytime soon. It made him nervous, thinking of all the possible ways this could go south in an instant.

Bucky wanted to keep Steve near in case shit hit the fan, and even though he'd just be right outside the door, Bucky didn't want him to go.

Rather than allow himself to act on any of that, Bucky forced the feelings down into the pit of his stomach and gave Steve a thumbs up, telling him that he'd be just fine.

Steve only gave himself another half a second to hesitate before he nodded, swiping his thumb across the screen and putting the phone up to his ear, muttering out a "Hey, Sam," on his way out the door to stand in the hallway.

Bucky didn't know why Steve had needed to go that route to gain his privacy, but the look in Barton's eyes said he did. There was a purpose to it that Bucky wasn't yet privy too, but he was sure he'd find out what that was very soon.

"Is it him?" Barton says abruptly. Bucky didn't quite know what he meant. "Why you're not talking, I mean."

Bucky's shoulders climbed up to the nape of his neck at the implication of what Barton was asking, thick with tension and uncertainty. Being around Steve was a double-edged sword: on the one hand, Steve made him feel safe. Well, _safer_ than he was on the streets with a head full of horrors and Hydra breathing down his neck. But on the other, Steve represents something from his past that Bucky shouldn't touch. 

He's like an antique or an old family heirloom that sat on your grandmother's mantle when you were a kid. It's nice to look at, to admire it for its elegance, but don't you dare touch it. 

You touch it, you break it.

That was how it felt every time Bucky looked at Steve. There's this undercurrent of anxiety that rests just under Bucky's skin, terrified that if he opened his mouth the horrors would come out and touch everything they could find with their corrupted hands; breaking this already fragile existence they've found themselves in.

Steve is the only link to his past that he has left. He's the only one that's willing to give Bucky answers–when he's ready to ask the questions, that is. 

So far he hasn't been able to, perhaps afraid of the answers he'll get. But mostly it's because they don't have a reliable form of communication at the moment.

And Bucky tries to speak, largely from Steve's encouragement, but it's like his throat won't work and the words won't come because if Steve knew the half of it, he'd kill Bucky himself out of sheer disgust for the things he'd done.

So Bucky stayed silent, because what else could he do?

"I've noticed that you look at him in a very specific way," Barton continued. "Like he's the anchor and you're the ship, but the ship is already sinking and the anchor is only dragging it down faster, isn't it?"

Bucky swallowed thickly, nodding after a beat of hesitation.

"It's difficult, being here with him like this?" Barton's question was sympathetic, his tone even more. There's a sad tilt to his lips and his blue eyes are soft and strangely inviting. Bucky nodded again, against his better judgment.

_'A lot of pressure'_

"I can see how you'd think that." Barton agreed. "Cap can be pretty intense, even when he's not trying to be. Makes even the simplest things hard to do, hm?"

Bucky sighed. _'I can't talk to him.'_  

"Why not?"

_'Throat won't work. Words won't come. I'm broken.'_

Barton's face softened at that. His time with Natasha had taught him many things of note, apparently. Patience and understanding are the key elements needed to gain openness in an otherwise cagey individual like Bucky, who's also seen some _shit_ in his unnaturally long lifetime. He also needed Bucky to trust him, which he supposed that was why the tone of the conversation was empathetic and also why they were talking about this alone while Steve was out in the hall: less pressure.

"Nah, you're not broken, man." He said with a shake of his head. "It's just been, what, like eighty years since you guys've been back together? That can be pretty scary for anyone, friendship aside."

Barton paused, a wry smile catching Bucky's eye.

"Especially when that friend is _the_ Bucky Barnes," he gushed, cheeks tinted pink like he was talking to a school crush. "Howling Commando, the finest sharpshooter in world war two history, and _my_ personal reason for doing what I do–er, why I _started_ doing what I do."

 _'What?'_ Bucky signed, perplexed as to what the hell Barton was squealing about. What the fuck was a _H_ _owling Commando?_ And what exactly is Clint Barton, for that matter?

"I wasn't gonna say anything originally, mostly because Cap put the kibosh on it before I even could, but you're like, a _Legend_ , man." Barton's flattery, though unfounded, knows no bounds. Bucky doesn't recall much of his time before Hydra, or whether his skillset is strictly their doing or partly his own, but from what Barton is inferring, it appeared as if Bucky was just as good a shot before Hydra as he was after. It kind of felt good to know that Hydra didn't make every part of him like he'd been led to believe. 

Hydra may have taken a wet stone to them, but the blades were of his own making, so to speak.

"I mean, I'm an archer by trade, mostly from my time in the circus–but that's a story for later," Barton raised his hand, stopping himself before going down that incredibly long road again. "You're accuracy with a rifle is _un-fricken-paralleled_ , man! And between you and me," he whispered conspiratorially. "if anyone should'a been the sidekick, it should have been Cap."

That scored Barton an actual laugh from Bucky, even though he didn't understand why he was laughing at that in the first place. Something about wearing tights and Steve being a chorus girl, he thinks? He doesn't really know, but it's almost like it's muscle memory for him to rag on Steve for it. Whatever it was.

He may not know what all Barton is talking about, but it felt familiar to him in a way he couldn't shake. Like hearing a story he already knew, but couldn't recall reading.

It was fascinating and Barton was simply enchanting when he gushed about past Bucky and his baby sniper crush. It was...disarming, strangely enough, and Bucky found himself leaning on every single word Barton was saying.

 _'Tell me more.'_ Bucky rubbed his chest with his fist a bit sheepishly, adding in a ' _please'_ there at the end, and Barton did.

He told Bucky about his old unit; the 107th, how he'd aced every proficiency exam the army could ever throw at him, how he'd been deemed the unit's expert marksman. He'd risen from the bottom and earned his stripes as a sergeant in no time at all, and his unit had loved him for it.

Well, _love_ might have been a bit of a stretch, Bucky thought, but they did respect him. Bucky never gave them any reason not to.

> _"–all I'm sayin' is, you get me and this here rifle within a mile of Adolf Hitler with a clear line of sight? Pack your bags, boys. War's over."_
> 
> _Bucky grins to himself, staring up at the ceiling from his bunk. The barracks are unusually quiet tonight, and only a handful of men are actually awake at such a late hour. They'd been in England for seven days before they'd received their orders, and by the morning, they'd be on their way to Azzano: to the front._
> 
> _"That's just aces, Sarge." Jones snorts. "So why the hell am I still gettin' shipped off to bumfuck Italy for anyhow?"_
> 
> _"You usually this far up your own ass, Barnes?" Dugan adds, tossing a pillow at Bucky's face._
> 
> _"Only on Wednesdays and never for free, Dumdum." He throws a wink in there for good measure and Dugan rolls his eyes, already aware of what's coming. "But for you, I'm willin' to negotiate."_
> 
> _Dugan sighs regardless, but he breaks out laughing a second later, his whole body shaking the cot he's lying on. "Christ, your Ma know you got a mouth like that?"_
> 
> _"She sure does," Bucky says without a hint of repentance, and now Jones is laughing as well. "She's the one who gave it to me."_

Bucky blinked, shaking the fragmented memory away. Clint was still talking and Steve was nowhere in sight, but surprisingly, he was okay with that for now. 

Clint was a good guy, funny and charismatic in such a disarming way that Bucky felt some of the tension he'd been holding in his shoulders slip away like smoke in the wind. 

He listened as Clint told him about about the Howlies and how they were infamous for taking down Hydra in the second world war. He listened as Clint rattled off facts about each member that were supposedly public knowledge, although he recalled that Dugan used to smoke with his right hand, never his left, and Monty used more pomade in his hair than even Bucky did, which was quite impressive, really.

He was relaxing in small increments, even smiling here and there as Clint told him stories, so it surprised even him when he asked Barton–clear as day and in English to boot–

"Can you tell me about Steve?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Отчет, Солдат." "Report, Soldier."
> 
> "Миссия выполнена." "Mission completed."
> 
> I'm on twitter now if you wanna say hi❤
> 
> https://twitter.com/SinpaicasanovaT?s=09


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